1'ride  restrained  the  better  feelings  of  both ;  and,  with  a 
nervous  hand,  Kichnrd  wrote  his  name.  —  page  33. 


HEARTS  AND  FACES; 


OR, 


HOME-LIFE    UNYEILED. 


PAUL    CREYTON, 

AUTHOR  OF  "  FATHER  BBIGHTHOPES,"  ETC. 


SIXTH      THOUSAND. 


BOSTON: 

PIIILLIPS,  SAMPSON  AND  COMPANY. 
1854. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1863,  by 

J.   T.   TKOWBKIDGE, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusett* 


PREFACE. 


"  FATHER  BRIGHTIIOPES  "  was  the  author's  first  ex- 
periment at  book-making.  It  depended  upon  the 
public  whether  it  should  also  be  his  last.  But, 
somehow,  the  little  venture  was  successful ;  it  found 
many  friends  here  and  there  ;  and  the  favor  with 
which  it  was  received  acted  like  genial  sunshine  to 
quicken  and  mature  a  second  plant,  of  a  not  dis- 
similar species. 

The  present  volume  is  composed  of  short  domestic 
tales,  written  to  illustrate  American  HOME  LIFE,  and 
to  afford  the  reader  a  few  simple,  and,  it  is  hoped, 
useful  lessons,  as  well  as  amusement  for  now  and 
then  a  leisure  hour.  No  attempt  has  been  made  at 
fine  writing,  in  any  of  them.  Of  strange  romance 
and  startling  fiction  there  is  none ;  and,  if  the  book 


2051353 


IV  PREFACE. 

meets  •with  anything  like  the  kind  reception  accorded 
to  "  Father  Brighthopes,"  it  will  be  owing,  not  to 
its  literary  merits,  but  to  the  every-day  subjects  on 
which  it  touches,  and  to  the  gentle  feelings  of  the 
hearts  to  which  it  appeals. 

With  these  brief  remarks,  the  author  takes  leave 
of  his  friends  for  the  present,  gratefully  acknowledg- 
ing their  kindness,  and  hoping  to  be  able  again  to 
greet  them  in  a  few  months,  in  a  work  more  replete 
with  thought  and  spirit,  and  more  worthy  of  a 
place  in  their  afiections,  than  anything  he  has  yet 
attempted. 


CONTENTS. 


PAQg 

THE  TWIN  COTTAGES, 7 

MARBYIXG  A  FAMILY 58 

MARY  DARWELL'S  GBEEF, 98 

MUTTON  IN  BRAMBLETOWN, Ill 

THE  MISFORTUNES  OF  BASIL  GBAT, 137 

MBS.  DALTON'S  TRIALS, 180 

LILT  BELL, 191 

THE  CROSS  HUSBAND, 213 

THE  BLUE  EYES, 230 

Tire  JOURNEY  FOR  A  WIFE, 252 

EDGAR  EDSON, 267 

MRS.  JASLITT'S  SPANIEL,    .  .   ,  , 284 


THE    TWIN    COTTAGES. 


I.  —  THE   OLD  HOUSE. 

No  two  families  ever  dwelt  together,  under  the 
same  roof,  in  more  perfect  unity  and  happiness  than 
the  brothers  Felton ;  occupying,  with  their  wives 
and  children,  the  old  Felton  house,  in  the  flourish- 
ing township  of  Pennfield.  They  were  brothers  in 
feeling  as  well  as  in  name  j  —  their  wives  were  like 
sisters,  and  their  children  were  like  the  children  of 
the  same  parents  in  their  kindness  towards  each 
other.  Neither  ever  visited  the  city,  and  brought 
home  presents  to  his  own  children,  without  distrib- 
uting gifts  equally  curious  and  gratifying  to  his 
little  nephews  and  nieces.  The  two  families  enjoyed 
everything  in  common ;  eating  at  the  same  table, 
riding  in  the  same  great  carriage,  sitting  in  the 
same  pew  at  church,  and  laboring  together  to  ad- 
vance their  common  interest. 


8  THE   TWIN   COTTAGES. 

The  Feltons  lived  thus  for  years.  But  at  length, 
when  they  saw  new  and  beautiful  houses  rising  about 
their  estate  in  the  fairest  portions  of  Pennfield,  they 
conceived  a  desire  to  build  a  more  splendid  house 
than  the  humble  cottage  in  which  their  parents  had 
lived  and  died. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  asked  Lionel,  the  elder  of  the  two 
brothers,  as  they  were  walking  across  the  fields 
together,  one  mild  Sabbath  afternoon.  "  The  old 
house  is  really  getting  to  look  quite  poverty-stricken, 
in  the  midst  of  the  improvements  which  are  going 
on  around  us." 

"  And  as  our  families  increase,"  rejoined  Richard, 
who  was  no  less  ambitious  than  his  brother,  "  we  find 
the  old  house  growing  too  small  for  us.  We  must 
either  build  an  addition  in  the  spring,  or  put  up  a 
new  house  ;  and,  really,  I  am  inclined  to  think  the 
latter  would  be  the  cheapest,  in  the  end." 

"  No  doubt  of  it,  brother,"  said  Lionel.  "  But, 
even  if  it  would  not,  we  can  afford  a  little  extrava- 
gance, I  am  sure.  Here  we  are,  with  two  hundred 
acres  of  the  best  land  in  the  county,  free  from 
incumbrance;  and  we  have  money  enough  at  in- 
terest to  build  as  fine  a  house  as  you  can  see  from 
the  top  of  Hodge's  Hill." 

"  Well,  then,  supposing  we  put  up  a  new  cottage,' 
added  Richard,  casting  his  fine  eye,  with  an  expres 
sion  of  pride,  around  him  on  the  broad  and  beauti 


THE  TWIN   COTTAGES.  9 

ful  fields  of  the  Felton  estate.     "Where  shall  it 
stand  ?  " 

"  On  the  north  road,  to  be  sure,"  replied  Lionel. 
"There  is  not  another  such  fine  locality  in  Pennfield; 
and  I  am  sure  father  himself  purposed  building  there, 
had  he  lived.  The  finest  orchard  on  the  farm,  you 
know,  is  on  the  north  road  ;  —  the  new  house  shall 
go  up  directly  in  front  of  the  orchard,  with  its  front 
door  looking  towards  the  east." 

Kichard  was  accustomed  to  rely  upon  his  elder 
brother's  judgment,  and  on  this  occasion  he  coin- 
cided with  him  in  every  suggestion  he  made  touch- 
ing the  new  house.  They  walked  leisurely  over  to 
the  north  road,  and,  in  their  imagination,  constructed 
just  such  a  cottage  as  they  wished  to  build  there  in 
reality,  and  admired  its  imposing  beauty,  until  it 
would  have  been  a  difficult  thing  for  them  to  dismiss 
the  subject  from  their  minds,  and  live  contented  in 
the  old  house  half-a-dozen  years  longer. 

It  was  resolved,  then,  that  the  new  house  should 
be  built ;  and  you  may  be  sure  that  the  wives  of 
Lionel  and  Richard  showed  no  disposition  to  dis 
courage  the  enterprise.  It  was  something  they  had 
long  desired,  but  to  which  they  had  small  hopes  of 
being  able  to  persuade  their  husbands ;  for,  —  if  the 
truth  must  be  told,  —  the  old  Felton  house  was 
quite  large  enough  and  sufficiently  convenient  for 
both  families  for  ten  years  to  come;  and  it  was 


10  THE   TWIN    COTTAGES. 

hardly  thought  that  two  such  sober-minded  men  as 
Lionel  and  Richard  would  incur  the  expense  of  a 
new  house  merely  for  the  sake  of  appearances. 

The  project  was  the  subject  of  much  talk  and 
study  during  the  subsequent  fall  and  winter ;  and, 
after  the  principal  points  in  the  construction  of  the 
proposed  cottage  were  resolved  upon,  an  architect 
was  employed  to  draw  up  a  plan. 

Whilst  the  brothers  were  engaged  in  getting 
choice  framing-timber  out  of  the  woods,  and  in 
drawing  logs  to  the  saw-mill,  their  wives  at  home 
employed  their  time  in  constructing  quilts,  curtains 
and  rugs,  and  in  preparing  rags  for  carpets,  to  dec- 
orate the  new  cottage.  Long  before  spring,  they 
had  agreed  upon  the  style  in  which  each  room  was 
to  be  furnished,  and  given  a  thought  to  every  arti- 
cle, whether  for  use  or  show,  from  the  ornaments  on 
the  parlor  mantel-piece  to  the  stove  in  the  kitchen. 
All  this  time,  their  labors  and  discussions  were  con- 
ducted with  great  cheerfulness  and  commendable 
good  feeling. 

One  important  arrangement,  however,  still  re- 
mained to  be  made.  The  large,  square  bed-room,  in 
the  south-east  corner  of  the  house,  would  be  the  most 
desirable  and  pleasant  apartment  of  all. 

"  I  think,"  said  Martha  (Lionel's  wife),  referring, 
for  the  fiftieth  time  that  day,  to  the  plan  of  the  new 
house,  which  lay  upon  the  sitting-room  table,  "  I 


THE   TWIX    COTTAGES.  11 

think,  Maria,  you  can't  object  to  giving  that  room 
up  to  me.  Lionel  has  spoken  of  it.  I  think  he 
is  set  upon  it ;  and,  really,  I  think  wo  ought  to 
have  it." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  replied  Maria,  bend- 
ing over  her  work,  and  plying  her  needle  very  rap- 
idly. "  Richard  and  I  were  thinking  we  ought  to 
have  that  room.  In  fact,  we  did  n't  suppose  there 
would  be  a  word  said  against  it." 

"Well,  we  won't  quarrel  about  it,  of  course," 
pursued  Martha,  pushing  the  drawing  across  the 
table  in  a  rather  abrupt  manner.  "  But  I  am  sure, 
when  you  come  to  reflect,  you  will  allow  that  we 
have  the  best  right  to  the  room." 

"  How  the  best  right  ?  "  asked  Maria,  in  a  quiet 
tone. 

"  Why,  my  dear  woman,  you  can't  deny  that 
Lionel  has  done  all  the  planning,  and  headed  every 
enterprise  about  the  new  house.  He  first  suggested 
the  idea  of  building,  as  Richard  himself  allows. 
Now,  really,  every  person  of  sense  must  say  that  he 
ought  to  have  his  choice  of  the  rooms." 

"Every  person  of  sense?"  echoed  Maria,  losing 
patience  with  her  sister-in-law.  "You  appear  to 
think  I  am  not  a  person  of  sense  —  " 

"  Maria  —  " 

"  Because  I  don't  happen  to  think  just  as  you 
do.  Now,  I  must  say  that  I  think  any  person  of 


12  THE   TWIN    COTTAGES. 

sense  must  give  the  right  of  the  square  bed-room 
to  me.'1 

"  Well,"  said  Martha,  with  an  angry  gesture,  "by 
what  right  do  you  lay  claim  to  the  room  ?  " 

"  I  can  tell  you,  without  getting  angry,"  replied 
Maria,  in  a  significant  tone.  "  You  say  Lionel  has 
taken  the  lead  in  everything  connected  with  the  new 
house ;  and  so  he  has,  because  Richard  has  been  will- 
ing to  give  in  to  his  opinions,  as  younger  brothers 
generally  do.  Lionel  has  had  his  way  about  every- 
thing ;  but  Richard  has  done  as  much  hard  work  as 
your  husband  has ;  and  he  could  have  done  the  head- 
work  as  well,  if  Lionel  had  not  insisted  on  having  it 
all  done  to  please  himself.  Now,  after  giving  up 
all  to  Lionel,  Richard  certainly  ought  to  have  his 
way  about  one  trifling  matter;  and  that  is,  the 
square  bed-room." 

"  How  unreasonable  you  are ! "  exclaimed  Martha. 
"  You  have  n't  any  sense  on  this  subject.  You  know 
very  well  that  Richard  was  glad  to  have  my  hus- 
band take  all  the  cares  of  building  off  his  mind ; 
because  Lionel  is  more  capable  of  head-work  than 
himself." 

"  That  I  deny  !  "  said  Maria,  with  great  firmness 
of  manner.  "  I  don't  know  what  you  can  be  think- 
ing of,  to  make  such  an  absurd  remark.  Was  n't 
Richard  always  the  best  scholar,  and  don't  Lionel 


THE   TWIN    COTTAGES.  13 

even  now  apply  to  him,  when  there  is  any  figuring 
to  be  done  ? " 

"  The  best  scholar  has  nothing  to  do  with  build- 
ing a  house,"  said  Martha.  "  But  there  is  no  use 
talking  with  you,  until  you  come  to  your  senses. 
All  I  've  got  to  say  is,  tve  shall  have  the  square 
bed-room,  at  any  rate  !  There  !  " 

This  arrogance  on  the  part  of  her  sister-in-law 
made  Maria  very  angry,  and  she  answered  without 
giving  her  passion  time  to  cool. 

"  I  declare,  Mrs.  Felton,  this  is  too  bad !  A 
person  would  think  you  were  insane.  It  is  not  the 
room  I  care  so  much  about ;  for,  if  you  had  asked 
me  kindly  to  give  it  up  to  you,  I  would  have  given 
it  up  without  a  word,  as  Richard  and  I  have  always 
given  up  everything  to  you  and  your  husband.  But, 
if  you  claim  the  room,  it  is  another  thing ;  and 
you  '11  find  that  people  who  have  suffered  them- 
selves to  be  trampled  upon  can  set  up  for  their 
rights,  when  driven  to  it.  Say  what  you  may,  J 
will  never  go  into  the  new  house,  unless  we  can 
have  the  square  bed-room  !  " 

"We  can  go  into  it  alone,  then,  and  like  it  so 
much  the  better,"  said  Martha,  with  a  provoking 
laugh. 

"  We  '11  see  if  you  can ! "  retorted  Maria,  her  eyes 
flashing  upon  her  sneering  sister.  "  We  '11  see  !  " 

Maria  turned  her  back  scornfully  upon  Martha, 
2 


14  THE   TWIN  COTTAGES. 

as  if  determined  to  have  no  more  conversation  with 
one  so  void  of  reason ;  and  Martha  deliberately 
moved  her  seat  to  the  opposite  corner  of  the  room, 
apparently  with  the  intention  of  getting  as  far  from 
the  insane  Maria  as  possible. 


II. THE   QUARREL. 

It  was  on  a  cold  afternoon  in  mid-winter  that  the 
dispute  —  the  first  serious  quarrel  between  Martha 
and  Maria  —  took  place.  Lionel  and  Richard  had 
been  at  work  all  day  drawing  logs  out  of  the  woods ; 
and,  at  night,  unharnessing  their  teams  together,  they 
returned  to  the  house,  walking  slowly  side  by  side. 

"  I  calculate  we  shall  move  into  the  new  house 
early  next  fall,"  said  Lionel.  "  Our  work  gets  on 
famously.  We  shall  have  everything  ready  for  the 
carpenters  in  two  months,  and  the  masons  can  build 
the  cellar-wall  as  soon  as  the  frost  is  out  of  the 
ground." 

"  The  women  are  getting  on  finely,  too,"  rejoined 
Richard.  "  Now,  tell  me,  Lionel,  did  you  ever  see 
two  wives,  under  the  same  roof,  agree  so  well  ?  " 

"  Never.  But  it  is  no  wonder.  Martha  would 
sooner  give  up  everything  to  Maria  than  quarrel 
With  her." 

"  And  Maria  feels  the  same  towards  her." 


THE   TWIN   COTTAGES.  15 

With  these  words  on  his  lips,  Richard  opened  the 
door.  The  wives  were  sitting  in  the  position  in 
which  we  left  them. 

"  How  happens  this  ? "  said  Lionel.  "  The  table 
is  not  set." 

"  Maria,  how  have  you  forgotten  yourself  so  ?  " 
asked  the  mild  Richard.  "  You  usually  get  supper, 
I  believe." 

"  I  always  have  till  to-night,"  said  Maria,  flushing 
very  red.  "  For  two  months  I  have  set  the  table 
three  times  a  day,  without  a  word.  Now  I  think  it 
is  time  somebody  else  should  set  it." 

As  Martha  knew  very  well  who  was  meant  by 
somebody  else,  she  said,  quickly, 

"  I  don't  know  what  this  means,  I  am  sure.  Maria 
has  always  wanted  to-  set  the  table,  because  she  does 
not  like  to  sit  all  day  ;  —  and,  as  I  can  sew  faster 
than  she  can,  I  have  left  the  duty  to  her." 

"  I  don't  understand  this  trifling  !  "  said  Lionel, 
sternly. 

"  Nor  I."  replied  Richard,  biting  his  lips. 

"  Come,  brother,  let  us  set  the  table  ourselves." 

Maria  had  now  reflected  long  enough  on  the  folly 
of  what  she  was  doing  to  be  heartily  ashamed  of  her 
conduct.  She  felt  that  she  ought  to  have  set  the 
table,  but  pride  had  sustained  her  ;  and  now,  before 
she  could  leave  her  chair,  Martha,  who  knew,  per- 
haps, how  much  a  little  condescension  at  such  a  time 


16  THE   TWIN    COTTAGES. 

would  speak  in  her  favor  and  to  Maria's  disadvan- 
tage, quietly  arose  and  put  away  her  work. 

"  I  am  sure,"  said  she,  "  I  would  rather  set  the 
table  than  not.  It  is  much  plcasanter  than  sitting 
all  day ;  and  I  would  have  had  supper  all  ready  by 
this  time,  if  I  had  not  supposed  somebody  else  pre- 
ferred to  do  it." 

"  Maria,  what  does  this  mean  ?  "  demanded  Rich- 
ard, impatiently. 

Wounded  pride,  anger  and  shame,  struggled  in 
Maria's  breast,  until  she  burst  into  tears. 

"  I  have  been  trodden  upon  and  insulted  long 
enough  !  "  she  sobbed. 

"  Trodden  upon  and  insulted  !  "  echoed  the  impet- 
uous Lionel,  with  a  frown.  "  By  whom  ?  Not  by 
Martha,  I  know.  Come,  sister;  have  done  with  this 
nonsense ! " 

"  Brother  ! "  replied  Richard,  in  a  suppressed 
voice  ;  "  it  is  not  for  you  to  judge  and  condemn  my 
wife.  See,  she  weeps ;  and  she  would  not  weep  for 
nothing." 

"  Fudge ! "  said  Lionel,  with  a  gesture  of  irri- 
tation. 

Richard  turned  calmly  away,  and  followed  Maria 
to  her  room. 

As  soon  as  Martha  saw  her  husband  disposed  to 
take  her  part,  she  thought  best  to  hold  her  peace, 
and  go  quietly  about  her  work,  with  the  peculiar 


THE   TWIX    COTTAGES.  17 

air  of  a  person  very  much  abused,  but,  neverthe- 
less, perfectly  resigned.  Lionel  walked  across  the 
room,  sat  down,  and  took  his  youngest  child  upon 
his  knee. 

"  Now  tell  me  what  this  quarrel  is  !  "  said  he  to 
his  wife,  in  his  usual  imperative  manner  when  ex- 
cited. "  What  is  the  matter  with  Maria  ?  " 

"  It  is  such  a  trifle  that  I  am  ashamed  to  men- 
tion it,"  replied  Martha.  "  I  did  n't  think  she  was 
so  silly.  There  was  something  said  about  the  large 
square  bed-room  in  the  new  house,  and  Maria  spoke 
up  very  crank,  and  said  she  laid  claim  to  that.  I 
asked  her  by  what  right ;  and  she  answered  that  it 
was  time  for  her  to  lay  claim  to  something,  since 
she  and  Richard  had  suffered  us  to  trample  upon 
them,  and  have  our  own  way  in  everything,  so 
long." 

"  Did  she  say  that  ?  "  said  Lionel,  angrily. 

"  Yes,  and  a  great  deal  more  like  it,  Mrhich  I  can't 
repeat.  Of  course,"  added  Martha,  with  a  self- 
approving  smile,  "  I  could  n't  hear  her  talk  so  with- 
out making  some  reply  ;  and  so  I  told  her  that,  if 
anybody  had  a  right  to  the  bed-room,  it  was  our- 
selves, for  the  house  would  never  have  been  built 
if  it  had  not  been  for  you." 

Lionel's  brows  gathered. 

"  Richard  shall  know  of  this ! "  he  muttered.  "  I 
could  have  borne  anything  rather  than  that  she 


18  THE   TWIN    COTTAGES. 

should  have  said  ice  trample  upon  them.  My  blood 
boils  at  the  injustice  of  the  charge.  I  take  the  lead 
in  business,  because  I  have  more  of  a  business  turn 
than  Richard  has ;  and  because  he  knows  it,  and  is 
more  willing  to  trust  to  my  judgment  than  his  own. 
We  trample  upon  them  !  So  this  is  the  reason  why 
Maria  did  not  set  the  table." 

"  I  don't  know  of  any  other  reason,  I  am  sure," 
replied  Martha. 

Meanwhile,  Maria  was  telling  her  story  to  her 
sympathizing  husband. 

"  I  ought  to  have  set  the  table,  I  know,"  said  she. 
"  But  Martha  was  so  unjust  and  tyrannical  that  I 
had  to  rebel.  It  is  true  we  never  quarrelled  seri- 
ously before,  but  it  is  only  because  I  have  always 
tamely  submitted  to  her  domineering  disposition. 
She  has  had  everything  her  own  way,  and  so  has 
Lionel ;  and  she  thinks  that,  because  we  have  sub- 
mitted before,  we  must  now.  I  told  her,  if  she  had 
asked  me  kindly  for  the  bed-room,  I  would  have 
given  it  up  to  her ;  but  when  she  claimed  it,  on  the 
plea  that  the  house  was  of  Lionel's  building,  and  not 
yours,  and  that  you  were  not  capable  of  taking  the 
lead  in  business " 

"  Did  she  say  that  ?  "  muttered  Richard,  whose 
pride  was  touched  to  the  quick. 

"0,  that  is  not  half  what  she  said  !  "  exclaimed 
Maria. 


THE   TWIN    COTTAGES.  19 

"  This  is  insulting  !  "  said  Richard,  with  much 
irritation.  "  Because  Lionel  is  the  eldest,  and  I 
have  allowed  him  to  take  the  lead,  as  elder  brothers 
naturally  do,  she  must  doubt  my  capability  !  But 
Lionel  himself  must  see  the  injustice  of  this,  and  he 
shall  know  of  it  to-night." 

During  this  time,  Richard's  two  eldest  children. 
—  Jackson  and  Wolcott,  —  together  with  their 
cousin  Edward,  were  milking  the  cows,  feeding 
and  taking  care  of  the  stock,  and  performing  other 
duties  about  the  yards  and  barn,  to  which  they 
always  gave  their  attention  after  school.  To  see 
that  the  boys  slighted  none  of  the  "  chores,"  Lionel, 
as  was  his  custom  at  night,  left  the  house,  directing 
his  footsteps  towards  the  barn ;  and  Richard  went 
out  soon  after  on  the  same  errand.  The  brothers 
met  in  the  door  of  the  wagon-house,  and  stopped  to 
speak  with  each  other. 

"  The  women,"  said  Lionel,  carelessly,  "  have  had 
a  foolish  quarrel." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  for  it,"  replied  Richard. 

"  I  hope  they  will  make  it  up  again  soon,  brother. 
But  I  must  say  I  think  that  Maria  is  the  most  to 
blame." 

"  To  blame  for  resenting  an  insult  to  her  hus- 
band ? "  said  Richard,  hastily. 

"  Who  has  insulted  you  ? " 

"  Martha.     She  said  I  was  not  capable  of  doing 


20  TIIE   TWIN    COTTAGES. 

business.  If  I  have  permitted  you  to  take  the  lead,, 
Lionel,  it  is  not  because  I  consider  myself  in  any 
way  3~our  inferior." 

"  It  seems  to  me  you  are  getting  into  a  passion 
about  nothing,"  rejoined  Lionel.  "  Martha  may 
have  said  you  had  less  business  tact  than  I  have ; 
and  that  you  yourself  cannot  deny." 

"  That  I  do  deny  !  I  acknowledge  no  inferiority. 
As  Maria  said,  you  and  Martha  are  growing  pre- 
sumptuous." 

"  She  said  we  trample  upon  you  !     Absurdity  !  " 

"  Ha  ! "  ejaculated  Richard,  with  irritation. 
%"  You  have  never  presumed  too  much,  have  you? 
Your  wife  laid  claim  to  the  bed-room,  because  your 
judgment  is  superior  to  mine  !  " 

"  Come,  come,  you  talk  like  a  school-boy  !  "  mut- 
tered Lionel,  with  a  sneer.  "  I  think  we  had  bet- 
ter drop  the  subject  till  some  time  when  you  are 
cool." 

"  Lionel,  this  is  unkind  !  —  this  is  unjust !  I 
cannot  suffer  such  intolerance.  It  is  as  Maria  said. 
You  presume  too  much  on  our  good-nature." 

"  Hum  !  yes,  trample  upon  you  !  " 

Richard  turned  angrily  away.  The  two  families 
sat  down  to  the  table  together  that  evening,  but  not 
a  word  was  spoken  by  the  parents.  The  children 
saw  that  there  was  some  trouble  in  the  house,  and 
conducted  their  conversation  in  whispers. 


THE   TWIN    COTTAGES.  21 

After  supper,  Richard  sent  Jackson  down  cellar 
for  a  pan  of  apples  and  a  pitcher  of  cider ;  but, 
instead  of  directing  him,  as  heretofore,  to  pass  the 
fruit  first  to  his  aunt,  and  fill  his  uncle's  glass  before 
his  own,  he  told  him  to  place  the  pitcher  and  pan 
upon  the  hearth  before  the  blazing  fire,  where  every- 
body could  help  themselves. 

Lionel  cast  a  strange  Jook  upon  his  brother,  and 
exchanged  glances  with  his  wife.  Immediately  after, 
Martha  called  Edward  to  her,  and  whispered  some- 
thing in  his  ear. 

Although  the  candle  Jackson  had  used  was  still 
left  burning,  Edward  lighted  a  fresh  one,  and,  pass- 
ing through  the  pantry,  went  down  cellar.  In  a  few 
minutes  he  returned  with  another  pan  of  apples  and 
another  pitcher  of  cider,  which  he  placed  upon  the 
hearth  close  beside  Jackson's,  selecting  the  nicest 
apple  he  could  find  for  his  mother,  and  filling  his 
father's  glass  to  the  brim. 

"  Pass  it  to  Richard,"  said  Lionel. 

Richard,  proud,  sensitive  and  indignant  when 
aroused,  imputed  this  silent  rebuke  as  an  insult, 
and  refused  the  proffered  glass  with  a  look  of  scorn. 
Lionel  smiled  contemptuously,  and  quaffed  the  bev- 
erage in  silence.  For  the  first  time  in  many  years, 
the  two  families  parted  that  evening  without  bidding 
each  other  good-night. 


22  TUE    TWIN   COTTAGES. 


III. THE   FEUD. 

Lionel  arose  betimes  on  the  following  morning, 
lighted  the  kitchen  fire,  and  went  out  to  feed  the 
teams  long  before  the  dawn,  while  Martha,  contrary 
to  her  custom,  busied  herself  in  preparing  breakfast. 
This  strong-minded  couple,  in  talking  over  the 
quarrel  of  the  previous  evening  behind  their  bed- 
curtains,  had  arrived  at  the  fixed  conclusion,  that, 
Richard  and  Maria  having  acted  foolishly,  they 
should  be  the  first  to  make  advances  towards  a 
reconciliation. 

"  It  will  be  best  to  go  about  our  business,  and  say 
nothing  to  them,  until  they  have  done  pouting,"  said 
the  stern  Lionel. 

"  I  think  so,  too,"  said  Martha. 

On  the  other  hand,  Ilichard  had  said  to  his  wife, 

"  Lionel  has  not  been  like  a  brother  in  this  ;  nor 
Martha  like  a  sister.  Their  conduct  has  been  too 
over-bearing.  They  have  insulted  us,  and  I  think 
it  is  their  duty  to  ask  our  pardon." 

"  To  be  sure  it  is  !  "  exclaimed  Maria. 

So  there  had  been  four  hearts  full  of  bitterness 
and  anger,  beneath  the  peaceful  roof  of  the  old  Fel- 
ton  house,  that  night. 

When  Maria  arose,  and  found  that  Martha  was 
preparing  breakfast,  she  was  more  angry  than 
ever. 


THE    TWIN    COTTAGES.  23 

"  She  does  it  to  provoke  me  !  "  she  exclaimed  to 
Richard.  "  This  is  insult  heaped  upon  insult !  " 

At  the  breakfast-table  a  sullen  silence  was  main- 
tained by  Richard  and  his  wife,  while  Lionel  and 
Martha  kept  up  a  light  and  careless  conversation 
between  themselves,  in  order  to  show  a  proper  con- 
tempt for  the  resentment  of  their  companions.  This 
affected  indifference  rankled  in  the  sensitive  heart 
of  Richard ;  and,  having  made  a  light  and  hasty 
breakfast,  he  went  to  the  barn,  and  drove  his  team 
into  the  woods  without  saying  a  word  to  his 
brother. 

Lionel  followed,  soon  after  ;  and  the  brothers 
helped  each  other  roll  the  logs  upon  their  sleds  as 
usual,  but.  it  was  without  a  kind  word  or  a  kindly 
feeling.  Each  waited  for  the  other  to  speak ;  and 
had  Richard  or  Lionel  uttered  a  single  word  of 
kindness,  it  would  undoubtedly  have  been  responded 
to  with  an  outburst  of  brotherly  love,  and  would 
have .  resulted  in  a  perfect  reconciliation  ;  but,  as  it 
was,  they  worked  together  thus  all  day,  making 
themselves  and  each  other  as  miserable  as  possible. 

The  following  day  being  Saturday,  Lionel  rode 
into  the  city  to  make  some  purchases,  and  to  con- 
elude  a  contract  for  the  disposal  of  a  quantity  of 
wood,  which  the  brothers  had  long  been  anxious  to 
send  off  while  the  sleighing  lasted. 

Now  Lionel,  imperious  and  unyielding  as  he  some- 


24  THE    TWIN    COTTAGES. 

times  was,  had  naturally  a  kind  and  generous  heart ; 
and  when  he  thought  how  wretched  the  family  quar- 
rel had  made  them  all  during  the  past  eight-and- 
forty  hours,  and  remembered  how  happy  they  had 
been  living  together  in  peace  and  good  fellowship, 
he  resolved  to  forgive  Richard's  unreasonable  spite, 
and  make  the  first  efforts  towards  the  restoration  of 
mutual  confidence  and  love.  Accordingly,  whilst 
he  was  in  the  city,  he  purchased  a  box  of  figs,  to  be 
divided  equally  between  Richard's  children  and  his 
own ;  a  silver  comb  for  Maria,  precisely  similar  to 
one  he  bought  for  Martha :  and  a  handsome  gold 
pencil,  which  he  intended  as  a  gift  for  Richard. 

With  these  laudable  resolutions  and  generous 
presents,  Lionel  returned  home  at  night,  anticipat- 
ing the  blessings  which  should  follow  a  noble  action. 
But,  most  unfortunately,  Martha  and  Maria  had  been 
quarrelling  all  day ;  and  even  the  children  had  begun 
to  imbibe  the  poison  of  ill-will,  and  show  their  spite 
towards  each  other. 

When  Lionel  produced  the  figs,  he  called  all  the 
children  to  him,  and  chose  some  of  the  nicest  to  give 
to  little  Lizzie,  Richard's  youngest  child. 

"  Come,  my  dear,"  said  he.  "  I  have  got  some- 
thing for  you." 

He  held  up  the  figs,  and  Lizzie,  clapping  her  little 
hands  with  delight,  started  forward  to  receive  them  ; 
but  her  eldest  brother,  Jackson,  said, 


THE   TWIN    COTTAGES.  25 

"  You  don't  want  any  figs,  Lizzie  ;  let  Jane  have 
them,  and  I  will  buy  you  a  new  doll,  and  a  whole 
bunch  of  raisins,  when  I  go  to  town." 

Lionel  scowled  darkly  upon  his  nephew ;  but  once 
more  offered  the  figs  to  Lizzie,  who,  influenced  by 
her  brother,  hesitated  to  receive  them. 

"  I  would  n't  coax  her !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Lionel. 
"  Give  the  figs  to  Martha  and  Jane ;  they  will  be 
glad  of  them.  /  have  not  told  them  not  to  accept 
anything  that  is  given  them  !  " 

These  emphatic  words,  uttered  in  a  significant 
tone,  were  accompanied  by  a  sneering  glance  at 
Maria. 

"  Mrs.  Felton,"  said  Lionel,  sternly,  "  is  it  your 
will  that  your  children  should  not  accept  a  present 
from  me  ? " 

Maria  answered,  on  the  angry  impulse  of  the  mo- 
ment, "  If  you  think  your  presents  are  going  to  pay 
us  for  the  abuse  you  have  heaped  upon  us/you  had 
better  keep  them  to  yourself !  " 

Lionel's  eyes  flashed  fire,  as  he  pushed  the  box  of 
figs  away  from  him,  exclaiming, 

"  Here,  Edward,  divide  them  with  your  sisters. 
Take  these  combs,  Martha.  I  designed  only  one  of 
them  for  you ;  but,  since  I  cannot  make  an  offer  of 
a  present  without  being  insulted,  you  had  better  take 
them  both." 

Had  Richard  been  present,  it  is  probable  this 
3 


26  THE   TWIN    COTTAGES. 

scene  would  have  terminated  more  happily  for  he 
only  waited  for  the  smallest  manifestation  of  kind- 
ness on  the  part  of  his  brother  to  forgive  and  forget 
all.  But  the  brothers  did  not  meet  until  Martha 
had  conferred  with  her  husband,  and  Maria  had  told 
her  side  of  the  story  to  Richard ;  so  that  Lionel's 
efforts  towards  a  reconciliation  resulted  in  a  more 
bitter  and  determined  animosity  between  the  fami- 
lies. His  pride  would  not  allow  him  then  to  offer 
his  brother  the  pencil  he  designed  for  him  ;  nor  is  it 
probable  Richard  would  have  received  it,  had  it  been 
offered. 

Taking  example  from  their  parents,  the  children 
now  did  nothing  but  quarrel  continually.  Even  on 
the  following  morning,  which  was  the  Sabbath,  usu- 
ally so  peaceful  and  happy  in  the  old  Felton  house, 
there  were  dissensions  and  strife  between  Richard's 
children  and  Lionel's. 

Richard  was  somewhere  about  the  yard,  and  Maria 
occupied  the  sitting-room,  while  Lionel  and  his  wife 
remained  by  the  kitchen  fire.  Lionel  was  shaving 
and  preparing  for  church,  when  his  attention  was 
drawn  by  angry  voices  in  the  yard  behind  the  house. 
Looking  out  of  the  window,  he  saw  Lizzie,  Rich- 
ard's youngest  child,  quarrelling  with  his  daughter 
Martha,  whom  he  had  sent  to  the  shed  for  some 
chips. 

"  Call  her  into  the  house,"  said  he  to  his  wife 


THE    TWIN   COTTAGES.  27 

The  latter  was  about  to  comply,  when  she  heard 
Maria,  in  the  other  room,  cry  out, 

"  There  is  that  great  creature,  Martha,  hurting 
little  Lizzie  !  It  is  a  shame  !  Run  out,  Wolcott, 
and  bring  your  sister  into  the  house  !  " 

"  That  is  pretty  talk  ! "  muttered  Martha,  turning 
to  Lionel.  "  Let  us  see  what  Wolcott  will  do." 

They  watched  from  the  window,  and  saw  the  boy 
run  hastily  up  to  the  children,  seize  Martha  rudely 
by  the  shoulder,  and  push  her  aside.  Unfortu- 
nately, Martha's  foot  slipped,  and  she  fell  to  the 
ground. 

"  The  little  villain  !  "  muttered  Mrs.  Lionel. 

"  I  will  see  if  he  is  to  treat  my  girls  in  that  way," 
said  Lionel,  going  towards  the  door. 

"  There  is  no  need ! "  exclaimed  his  wife.  "  There 
is  Edward." 

In  effect,  Lionel's  eldest  child  was  already  upon 
the  spot.  Seeing  Martha  crying,  and  supposing 
Wolcott  had  hurt  her  badly,  he  struck  his  cousin 
violently  on  the  cheek.  With  a  cry  of  rage,  Wol- 
cott flew  at  his  assailant ;  but  Edward  was  much 
the  largest  and  strongest  boy,  and,  a  moment  after, 
he  had  thrown  his  cousin  down  upon  the  frozen 
ground. 

"  Edward  !  Edward  !  "  cried  Lionel ;  "  come  into 
the  house ! " 

Before  the  boy  could  obey,  however,  llichard, 


28  THE    TWI5    COTTAGES. 

coming  out  of  the  wagon-house,  and  seeing  his  favor- 
ite son  beaten  by  his  cousin,  so  much  older  than  him- 
self, ran  to  the  spot,  and,  taking  Edward  angrily  by 
the  shoulder,  shook  him  with  all  his  might. 

"  Let  go  of  me  !  "  shouted  Edward,  fiercely.  "  I 
am  not  to  be  whipped  by  you,  sir  !  " 

"  There  'a  spirit  for  you  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Lionel, 
delighted.  "  But  I  hope  you  are  not  going  to  see 
your  son  abused  by  his  uncle,  for  taking  his  sister's 
part ! " 

"  No,  not  I ! "  muttered  Lionel,  rushing  out 
of  the  house.  "  Take  your  hands  off  from  him  !  " 
he  added,  in  an  angry  tone,  confronting  Richard. 

"Do  you  mean  to  bully  me?"  demanded  Rich- 
ard, purple  with  rage.  "  You  will  find  that  I 
shall  stand  upon  my  rights  now,  if  I  have  suffered 
your  tyranny  from  my  boyhood." 

"  Brother  !  brother  !  "  cried  Lionel,  choking  with 
wrath  ;  "  beware  what  you  say  !  " 

"  Beware  what  you  do  !  "  retorted  Richard,  still 
retaining  his  hold  of  Edward. 

"  As  I  am  a  living  man,"  muttered  Lionel,  in- 
tensely excited,  "  I  shall  use  violence,  if  you  do  not 
release  my  son  !  " 

And  he  placed  his  strong  hand  upon  the  throat 
of  Richard. 

"  Unhand  me  !  —  unhand  me,  sir  !  "  cried  Rich- 
ard, beside  himself  with  passion.  "  I  shall  strike  ! ' 


THE    TWIN    COTTAGES.  29 

"  Release  my  son  !  "  said  Lionel. 

Kichard  did  release  his  son  ;  but  it  was  to  clench 
his  fist,  and  level  a  fierce  blow  at  his  brother's  tem- 
ple. Lionel  staggered ;  but,  recovering  himself  im- 
mediately, he  folded  his  arms,  and,  fixing  his  terrible 
eye  upon  Richard,  said,  in  a  hoarse  voice, 

"  That  blow  shall  never  be  forgiven  !  " 

And  he  stalked  into  the  house,  leaving  Richard 
overwhelmed  with  rage  and  shame. 


IV. THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  COTTAGES. 

The  awful  occurrence  of  the  morning  cast  a  deep 
shadow  of  gloom  over  the  old  Felton  house  for  the 
remainder  of  the  Sabbath.  Even  the  youngest  chil- 
dren seemed  to  be  aware  that  sin  had  been  among 
them  in  an  unusual  form.  Neither  family  went  to 
church  that  day ;  nor  did  they  eat  together,  or  asso- 
ciate together  in  any  manner.  Edward  made  a  fire 
in  the  parlor,  by  the  direction  of  his  parents ;  and 
thither  Lionel's  family  retired,  leaving  Richard's  in 
the  possession  of  the  sitting-room. 

"  You  need  n't  have  anything  more  to  say  to  your 
uncle's  people,"  said  Martha  to  her  children. 

"  Did  Uncle  Richard  strike  father  ?  "  asked  little 
Jane. 

"  Hush  !  "  muttered  Lionel. 


30  THE    TWIN    COTTAGES. 

The  sound  of  his  brother's  name  made  his  bro\V 
contract  with  wrath. 

Meanwhile,  Richard  was  miserable.  "  I  should 
not  have  struck  my  brother,"  he  would  say,  in  hia 
remorse.  Then,  in  his  anger  and  pride,  he  would 
add,  "  But  he  laid  his  hand  upon  my  throat !  I 
gave  him  warning.  His  hand  upon  my  throat !  " 

In  the  evening,  Richard  saw  Lionel  leave  the 
house.  He  did  not  return  until  late ;  and  Richard, 
with  many  misgivings,  asked  himself  where  his 
brother  could  have  gone.  He  knew  in  the  morn- 
ing. 

Squire  Stone  came  early  to  the  house,  and  in- 
quired for  Richard.  As  the  latter  had  not  gone  to 
work,  he  was  easily  found ;  and  the  squire  opened 
his  business  to  him  at  once. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  to  learn  that  there  is  some 
difficulty  between  you  and  your  brother,  Mr.  Pel- 
ton." 

Richard  scowled,  kicked  the  ground  with  his  foot, 
and  said  nothing. 

"  I  saw  Lionel  last  night,"  pursued  the  squire. 
"  He  says  he  thinks  a  division  of  your  property  is 
necessary." 

Richard  started  and  turned  pale ;  but  he  only 
murmured, 

"Well." 

"  Are  you  of  the  same  way  of  thinking  ? " 


THE    TWIN   COTTAGES.  31 

"  I  will  agree  to  anything  reasonable." 

"  But  this,  Mr.  Felton,  I  think  unreasonable.  I 
told  your  brother  so,  and  tried  to  dissuade  him  from 
it.  But  he  is  determined." 

"  Is  he  ?  "  cried  Richard,  trembling  with  excite- 
ment. "  Very  well.  Let  the  property  be  divided. 
I  am  willing." 

"  But  you  know  this  division  will  necessarily  be  a 
very  difficult  thing." 

"  Not  so  difficult  but  that  it  can  be  accomplished," 
said  Richard,  firmly. 

Squire  Stone  then  saw  Lionel,  and,  after  a  con- 
ference with  him,  returned  again  to  Richard.  Un- 
fortunately, he  had  not  the  happy  faculty  of  rec- 
onciling enemies,  and  his  negotiations  only  made 
matters  worse.  Before  night,  the  division  of  the 
property  was  a  settled  affair,  and  the  preliminary 
steps  had  been  taken  to  effect  the  important  object. 
Arbiters  were  chosen  to  adjust  the  business,  so  that 
the  brothers  might  not  come  in  contact ;  for  all  this 
time  they  had  never  spoken  to  each  other,  since  the 
fatal  affray. 

The  directions  Richard  gave  to  his  friends  were, 

"  Divide  the  stock,  the  farming  implements,  the 
land,  —  everything,  as  you  see  fit.  Act  according 
to  your  judgment  and  friendship.  Only  one  thing 
I  insist  upon,  —  the  site  where  we  were  going  to 


32  TUB    TWIN   COTTAGES. 

build  in  the  spring  must  be  included  in  the  land 
which  falls  to  my  share." 

Now,  it  so  happened  that  Lionel  had  set  his  heart 
upon  that  building-lot. 

"  I  must  and  will  have  that,"  said  he,  "  if  it  be 
at  the  sacrifice  of  ten  times  as  much  land  anywhere 
else." 

With  the  building-lot  in  the  way,  the  arbiters 
found  the  greatest  difficulty  in  settling  the  division 
of  property.  At  length,  Squire  Stone  suggested 
that  the  lot  itself  should  be  divided. 

"  A  good  idea,"  said  one  of  the  arbiters ;  "  we  can 
run  the  line  up  to  the  north  road,  and  cut  the  lot  in 
the  centre,  giving  the  boys  half  and  half." 

This  suggestion  was  reported  to  the  brothers. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Lionel ;  "  divide  it." 

"Cut  it  in  halves,  then,"  were  the  words  of 
Richard  ;  "  I  care  not,  since  he  is  not  to  have  the 
whole." 

The  lot  was  accordingly  divided,  and,  the  arbiters 
having  come  to  a  decision,  a  surveyor  was  appointed 
to  ruij  a  line  according  to  their  directions.  The 
necessafy  articles  of  agreement  were  then  drawn  up, 
to  which  the  brothers  were  to  put  their  names. 

Until  the  last  moment,  Richard  had  hoped  that 
some  word  of  regret  at  the  division  of  the  property 
would  escape  his  brother ;  nor  was  it  without  many 
misgivings  that  Lionel'  saw  the  hour  arrive  when 


THE   TWIN    COTTAGES.  33 

the  last  tie  between  him  and  Richard  was  to  be 
broken.  The  hand  of  the  latter  trembled,  as  he 
took  the  pen  to  sign  his  name.  He  raised  his  eyes  to 
his  brother's  face,  to  find  there  one  kind  look,  to  hear 
one  word  of  regret,  of  which  he  might  take  advan- 
tage, even  at  the  last  moment.  But  Lionel  looked 
sternly  on,  to  see  if  Richard  would  sign,  without  an 
appeal  to  him  for  a  brother's  reconciliation.  Pride 
restrained  the  better  feelings  of  both  ;  and,  with  a 
nervous  hand,  Richard  wrote  his  name.  How  angry 
with  himself  was  he  afterwards,  to  think  that  his 
hand  trembled,  while  Lionel's  was  firm ;  and  how 
the  latter  sneered,  as  he  glanced  his  eye  at  the 
unsteady  lines  his  brother  had  traced,  in  his  agita- 
tion ! 

The  deed  was  done,  and  henceforth  the  brothers 
possessed  nothing  in  common.  The  old  house  had 
fallen  to  Richard's  share ;  but  Lionel  was  to  occupy 
a  certain  portion  of  it,  particularly  designated  in 
the  articles  of  agreement,  until  he  could  build. 
The  house,  the  cattle,  the  flocks  of  sheep,  the 
poultry,  the  farming  implements,  the  household 
furniture,  even  the  timber  which  had  been  got  out 
for  the  new  house, —  everything  was  divided.  Even 
with  the  old  house  in  his  possession,  Richard  waa 
resolved  to  put  up  as  fine  a  cottage  as  his  brother ; 
in  fact,  having  learned  that  Lionel  proposed  using 
the  old  plan,  and  building  as  close  to  the  desirable 


34  THE   TWIN   COTTAGES. 

site  on  the  north  road  as  possible,  Richard  deter- 
mined to  put  up  a  cottage  exactly  like  it,  upon  his 
own  side  of  the  line,  in  order  not  to  be  outdone  by 
his  brother. 

While  the  Feltons  were  energetically  making 
preparations  to  build,  they  lived  in  the  old  house 
in  the  most  wretched  manner  imaginable.  Maria 
never  suffered  her  children  to  set  foot  in  Martha's 
portion  of  the  house ;  and  the  latter  was  quite  as 
anxious  to  prevent  all  intercourse  between  the  fami- 
lies ;  while  Lionel  and  Richard  avoided  each  other 
scrupulously,  nor  ever  communicated  except  through 
the  medium  of  a  third  person. 

The  two  families  no  longer  sat  together  in  church. 
The  second  Sabbath  after  the  affray,  both  were 
present  at  the  morning  service;  but  the  old  pew 
was  vacant.  Secretly  the  brothers  had  hired  sepa- 
rate pews  in  another  part  of  the  house.  Richard 
cast  his  eye  towards  the  old  pew,  to  see  how  Lionel's 
family  would  look  there  alone;  and  Lionel,  about 
the  same  time,  glanced  in  the  same  direction,  im- 
pelled by  the  same  curiosity.  Both  were  surprised 
to  see  the  old  pew  vacant ;  but  they  were  still  more 
surprised  when  their  eyes  met,  and  they  found  that 
the  new  pews  adjoined  each  other  in  the  body  of 
the  house !  However,  as  Lionel  entered  his  pew 
from  the  right-hand  aisle,  and  Richard  his  from  the 
left,  and  as  it  would  require  but  little  care  on  the 


THE  TWIN  COTTAGES.  35 

part  of  the  parents  to  keep  the  children  from 
getting  together,  neither  of  the  families  saw  fit  to 
change  their  seats  again. 

As  soon  as  the  frost  was  gone  out  of  the  ground 
in  the  spring,  Lionel  set  his  men  at  work  on  the 
north-east  corner  of  his  farm,  close  to  Richard's 
line ;  and  Richard,  at  the  same  time,  employed  labor- 
ers to  dig  a  cellar  on  the  south-east  corner  of  his 
land,  close  to  the  delectable  site  which  had  formed 
the  object  of  dispute.  Masons  laid  the  two  cellar- 
walls  at  the  same  time,  and  worked  so  near  each 
other  that  it  was  easy  for  them  to  jest  about  the 
strife  between  the  brothers,  talking  across  the  line. 

"  It  gives  two  good  jobs  to  us  and  the  carpen- 
ters," laughed  one. 

"  So  it  does,"  replied  the  other.  "  People  never 
make  fools  of  themselves,  without  working  for  some- 
body's good.  What  will  you  bet  but  I  will  get  my 
cellar  done  first  ?  " 

"  A  new  hat  for  Sundays,"  was  the  answer. 

The  hat  was  wagered,  but  neither  won  it ;  for  the 
cellars  were  both  finished  on  the  same  day,  at  the 
same  hour. 

Meanwhile,  the  timbers  were  hewn,  and  the  two 
master-carpenters  emulated  each  other  in  getting 
ready  the  frames.  These  were  both  finished  at 
about  the  same  time ;  and  they  might  have  been 
raised  on  the  same  day,  but  Lionel  sent  out  his 


86  THE   TWIN   COTTAGES. 

invitations  to  the  neighbors  before  Richard,  so  that 
when  the  latter  went  around  to  invite  them  to 
the  raising-bee,  he  found,  to  his  chagrin,  that  they 
were  all  engaged  to  his  brother.  Lionel's  haste, 
however,  availed  him  nothing.  In  his  anxiety  to 
get  the  start  of  Richard  in  putting  up  his  cottage, 
he  sent  out  invitations  prematurely,  and  when  his 
neighbors  were  on  the  spot  the  carpenter  declared 
that,  do  all  he  could,  he  had  not  been  able  to  get 
ready  for  the  raising.  So  Richard's  house-frame  was 
put  up  on  the  following  day,  and  Lionel's  the  day 
after. 

It  then  became  a  matter  of  strife  between  the 
two  families  to  move  and  get  settled  in  their  new 
houses  Before  each  other.  The  frames  were  clap- 
bearded  and  the  roofs  shingled  in  the  most  hasty 
manner ;  the  doors  were  hung  and  the  windows  set 
with  the  greatest  possible  despatch  ;  then  a  few 
rooms  were  done  off,  to  accommodate  the  families 
until  tie  rest  could  be  finished.  Both  brothers 
now  beoame  strangly  nervous ;  and  Lionel,  fearful 
of  beim  preceded  by  Richard,  made  hasty  prepara- 
tions to  move.  Discovering  these,  Richard  did  the 
same  ;  &,nd  the  brothers  went  into  the  twin  cottages 
on  the  -tame  day,  almost  before  the  paint  and  plas- 
tering Mere  dry. 


THE   TWIN   COTTAGES.  37 


V.  —  PLEASANT   NEIGHBORS. 

Ill  luck  now  appeared  to  attend  all  the  under- 
takings of  the  two  brothers,  who  had  formerly  been 
noted  for  their  good  fortune.  Richard,  unaccus- 
tomed to  take  the  lead  in  business,  missed  Lionel's 
cool  head  and  practised  judgment ;  and  the  latter 
began  to  see  the  inconvenience  of  having  none  to 
second  his  efforts. 

It  was  not  in  the  farming  business  alone  that  they 
were  not  so  prosperous  as  formerly.  From  the  day 
they  moved  into  the  twin  cottages,  everything  went 
wrong.  The  children  took  cold  from,  the  dampness 
of  the  freshly-plastered  rooms,  and  there  was  sick- 
ness in  both  families.  Owing  to  the  division  of  the 
household  furniture,  both  found  themselves  crippled 
for  want  of  useful  articles  which  it  was  difficult  to 
procure.  A  horse,  which  nobody  but  Lionel  could 
manage,  but  which  had  fallen  to  Richard's  portion, 
kicked  Jackson  in  the'  side,  and  laid  him  up  all 
summer  with  broken  ribs.  Then  Edward  fell  into 
the  well  Lionel  was  digging,  and  broke  his  arm ; 
and  Lionel  himself  got  his  fingers  smashed  beneath 
a  beam,  at  the  raising  of  his  barn.  Richard,  over- 
come by  anxiety  of  mind,  had  a  fever,  which  left 
him  a  mere  wreck,  and  from  which  he  was  long 
recovering.  Both  Martha  and  Maria,  worn  out  by 
hard  work  in  the  new  houses,  were  obliged  to 
4 


38  TUB   TWIN    COTTAGES. 

employ  girls  to  help  them ;  and  girls  are  always  a 
great  trial  to  people  who  have  been  accustomed  to 
do  their  own  work. 

The  expenses  of  building  were  so  much  greater 
than  Richard  had  anticipated,  and  he  had  to  employ 
so  much  extra  help  on  the  farm  during  the  summer, 
that,  long  before  fall,  he  bitterly  regretted  not  hav- 
ing remained  in  the  old  house  five  or  six  years 
longer.  But,  having  commenced,  he  would  not  be 
outdone  by  his  brother ;  so  he  borrowed  money  to 
build  exactly  such  a  barn  as  Lionel  was  building, 
and  to  make  everything  else  correspond. 

Richard  had  been  in  his  new  cottage  a  year 
before  the  last  of  the  carpenter's  work  was  done ; 
and  even  then,  in  consequence  of  the  haste  in  which 
the  frame  had  been  put  together  and  covered,  it  was 
necessary  to  call  in  a  joiner,  to  make  some  little 
repairs.  All  this  time,  Lionel's  house  was  in  nearly 
the  same  condition ;  but  at  length  both  cottages 
were,  as  you  may  say,  completed  ;  and  there  they 
stood,  side  by  side,  on  the  north  road,  looking  so 
exactly  alike,  in  outward  form  and  arrangements, 
that  they  attracted  general  attention,  and  obtained 
the  appellation  of  "  The  Twin  Cottages." 

Now,  all  the  satisfaction  the  rival  families  had 
gained  by  building  separately  was  in  the  possession 
of  two  large,  square  bed-rooms,  instead  of  one; 
although,  singular  to  relate,  Richard  did  not  occupy 


THE   TWIN    COTTAGES.  6V 

his,  within  two  years  after  his  removal  into  the  new 
house;  and  it  is  currently  reported  that  Lionel's 
was  never  done  off  for  a  sleeping  apartment,  but 
left  as  a  sort  of  play-room  for  the  children,  and  a 
convenient  place  to  shell  corn  in,  or  crack  butter- 
nuts on  rainy  days.  Thus,  the  square  bed-room, 
which  was  the  origin  of  all  the  unfortunate  difficul- 
ties between  the  two  families,  became  an  object  of 
very  small  importance  in  their  eyes  long  before 
they  had  experienced  half  the  inconvenience  of  the 
separation. 

The  cousins  were  brought  up  to  hate  each  other, 
and  to  do  each  other  all  possible  mischief.  They 
formed  their  school-fellows  into  two  distinct  clans, 
that  waged  perpetual  war,  and  gave  their  teachers, 
as  well  as  themselves,  a  great  deal  of  trouble  and 
unhappiness ;  until  all  respectable  and  well-mean- 
ing boys  got  to  shun  the  Feltons,  as  if  their  influ- 
ence had  been  contaminating. 

Not  many  months  had  elapsed  before  both  fam- 
ilies saw  the  convenience  of  living  so  near  together, 
the  proximity  of  their  houses  affording  every  in- 
ducement and  facility  to  quarrel.  The  cousins 
threw  stones  at  each  other  over  the  board-fence 
which  had  been  built  on  the  dividing  line  of  the  two 
estates ;  they  got  each  other's  balls,  when  knocked 
over  by  accident,  and  refused  to  give  them  up ;  and 
once,  when  au  unconscious  chicken  of  Lionel's  stole 


40  THE   TWIN    COTTAGES. 

through  the  fence,  to  pick  up  a  grain  of  corn  out  of 
Richard's  yard,  Wolcott  set  the  dog  upon  it,  and 
afterwards  threw  its  dead  carcass  insultingly  into 
his  uncle's  garden.  By  way  of  retaliation,  Edward, 
who  at  that  time  had  no  dog,  loaded  his  father's 
gun,  and  peppered  the  first  of  Richard's  geese  that 
put  its  unlucky  head  through  the  fence.  After 
this,  as  if  impelled  by  some  fatality,  turkeys,  geese, 
ducks  and  hens,  showed  an  extraordinary  tendency 
to  rush  blindly  upon  the  destruction  which  awaited 
them  at  the  mouth  of  the  dog  and  the  muzzle  of  the 
gun ;  so  that  numbers  of  the  inoffensive  poultry  fell 
miserable  victims  to  the  animosity  existing  between 
the  two  families. 

Things  progressed  in  this  happy  manner,  until  a 
fat  calf  belonging  to  Lionel  had  the  misfortune  to 
take  a  fancy  to  some  nice  grass  which  grew  on  the 
wrong  side  of  the  fence.  For  many  days  the  fated 
animal  might  have  been  seen  casting  anxious  glances 
at  the  appetizing  herb,  which,  perhaps,  looked  ten 
times  more  delectable  in  prospective  than  the  most 
epicurean  calf  would  have  proved  it  to  be  in  reality; 
so  that,  when  the  fence  was  broken  by  a  gale  of 
wind,  the  devoted  animal  leaped  gayly  through  the 
breach,  and  commenced  cropping  the  grass  with 
great  voracity,  without  alloying  the  pure  pleasure 
of  the  stolen  repast  with  a  single  thought  of  Rich- 
ard's merciless  big  dog.  In  five  minutes,  however 


THE   TWIN    COTTAGES.  41 

he  was  aroused  from  his  delicious  revery  by  a  ter- 
rible growl,  and  in  an  instant  the  fangs  of  Nero 
were  fastened  upon  his  throat.  Jackson  and  Wol- 
cott  set  Nero  on,  while  Martha,  from  the  door  of 
her  own  house,  watched  the  sport  with  a  heart  boil- 
ing over  with  rage.  Edward  ran  to  the  rescue ; 
but,  two  boys  and  a  dog  being  too  much  for  him  and 
a  calf,  —  or  for  two  calves,  as  Jackson  facetiously 
remarked,  —  he  was  forced  to  retreat.  The  calf  was 
horribly  mangled,  so  that  it  died  the  day  after,  to 
the  grief  of  Richard,  and  the  infinite  wrath  of 
Lionel. 

Edward,  more  incensed  than  even  his  parents, 
felt  bound  to  retaliate.  Accordingly,  when  Rich- 
ard's best  horse  jumped  into  his  father's  corn-field  a 
few  weeks  after,  the  determined  youth  deliberately 
loaded  his  gun,  and,  walking  up  close  to  old  Bay,  shot 
him  in  the  right  knee.  The  animal  was  ruined, 
and  Ilichard  enraged.  A  law-suit  followed,  which 
proved  to  be  of  endless  duration,  owing  to  the  ob- 
stinacy of  the  contending  parties,  and  which  involved 
both  brothers  in  debt,  giving  the  lawyers  of  Penn- 
field  more  lucrative  employment  than  three  genera- 
tions of  Feltons  had  ever  given  them  before. 

In  connection  with  the  cold-blooded  maiming  of 
old  Bay,  an  incident  occurred,  which,  as  an  instance 
of  the  manner  in  which  the  brothers  now  annoyed 
each  other,  will  well  bear  relating.  It  becoming 


42  THE   TWIN    COTTAGES. 

necessary  for  Richard  to  purchase  another  horse,  he 
attended  an  auction  for  the  purpose,  and  bid  high 
upon  a  fine  chestnut  mare,  which  he  thought  just 
suited  for  his  business.  His  bid  was  eighty  dollars ; 
somebody  else  bid  eighty -five.  "Ninety,"  said 
Richard.  "  Two  and  a  half,"  came  from  another 
part  of  the  room.  "  Five,"  pursued  Richard. 
"  Eight,"  was  bid  by  the  same  unknown  individual. 

"  It 's  your  brother  bidding  against  you,"  whis- 
pered a  friend  in  Richard's  ear. 

True  enough,  Lionel  was  bidding  for  the  horse. 
Resenting  this  interference,  —  for  he  knew  his 
brother  had  no  use  for  another  horse  at  that  time, — 
Richard  was  determined  to  outbid  him ;  but,  when 
the  horse  had  gone  up  to  one  hundred  and  twenty- 
five,  the  thought  struck  him  that  he  did  not  want 
him  at  that  price,  and  that  Lionel  wanted  him  still 
less.  So  he  let  Lionel  have  him  ;  and  Lionel  sold 
him,  a  week  afterwards,  for  eighty-seven  dollars. 

In  the  following  spring  there  was  a  freshet ;  and 
the  brook,  which,  in  its  south-westerly  course, 
watered  first  Richard's  farm,  and  afterwards  Lio- 
nel's, became  swollen  to  an  unusual  degree.  One 
afternoon,  Jackson  and  Wolcott,  having  been  down 
the  stream  to  repair  some  fences,  discovered  a  spot 
where,  with  a  little  assistance,  the  water  would 
overflow  its  banks,  and,  turning  into  a  deep 
ravine,  find  its  way  to  the  river,  without  flowing 


THE  TWIN  COTTAGES.  43 

through  Lionel's  land.  No  sooner  was  this  discov- 
ery made,  than  the  disadvantages  of  a  brook  were 
considered ;  and,  concluding  that  a  diversion  of  the 
course  of  the  stream  would  be  of  lasting  injury  to 
the  uncle,  the  boys  began  to  work  with  their  shovels 
in  right  good  earnest.  In  a  short  time  a  narrow, 
turbid  channel  crept  sluggishly  across  the  softened 
earth  of  the  bank;  then  it  came  with  greater  force, 
carrying  the  mud  and  gravel  with  it ;  and,  finally, 
it  went  rushing  down  into  the  ravine,  a  perfect  tor- 
rent, to  the  great  delight  of  the  boys,  who  ran  away, 
in  order  that  their  share  in  the  work  might  not  be 
discovered. 

On  the  following  morning  Lionel  went  over  his 
farm,  to  see  if  the  west  meadow  still  lay  under 
water,  in  consequence  of  the  overflowing  of  the 
stream,  and  was  astonished  at  the  sudden  and  mys- 
terious manner  in  which  the  waters  had  subsided. 
The  meadow  was  dry,  and  the  stream  had  shrunk 
into  a  mere  thread  of  water.  He  followed  it  up, 
until  he  discovered  the  cause.  In  his  wrath,  he  sent 
Squire  Stone  to  Richard,  charging  him  with  divert- 
ing the  course  of  the  stream,  and  threatening  a  law- 
suit if  the  bank  was  not  repaired.  Richard  knew 
nothing  of  the  change  in  the  course  of  the  brook, 
and  he  sent  back  a  scornful  defiance  to  Lionel.  A 
law-suit  followed,  even  more  difficult  and  expensive 
than  the  other ;  it  being  alleged  by  the  defendant 


44  THE   TWIN    COTTAGES. 

that  the  stream  had  now  found  its  original  course, 
from  which  it  had  been  diverted  by  his  father,  forty 
years  before,  in  order  to  water  the  south  part  of 
the  farm ;  and  by  the  plaintiff,  that  the  defendant 
had  turned  the  water  into  the  ravine,  to  do  him  an 
injury.  Thus,  aside  from  their  other  misfortunes, 
the  brothers  had  two  endless  law-suits  to  plunge 
them  into  debt. 


VI. THE   CONFLAGRATION. 

The  quarrels  of  Lionel  and  Richard  proved  in- 
jurious to  not  only  themselves,  their  families,  and 
their  immediate  friends,  but,  in  a  certain  measure, 
to  both  church  and  state.  They  belonged  to  the 
same  political  party ;  but,  when  Lionel  received  the 
nomination  for  high  sheriff,  Richard's  friends  re- 
fused to  vote  for  him,  and  for  the  first  time  in  ten 
years  the  opposite  party  carried  the  day.  After- 
wards, Richard  was  nominated  for  state  represent- 
ative ;  and,  by  way  of  retaliation,  Lionel's  clique 
went  against  him  unanimously,  throwing  their  influ- 
ence in  favor  of  another  candidate.  Owing  to  this 
split  in  the  party,  their  political  opponents  tri- 
umphed again,  and  sent  to  the  Legislature  a  fellow 
who  proved  a  traitor  to  the  best  interests  of  his  dis- 
trict. The  quarrel  of  the  brothers  created  a  division 


THE   TWIN    COTTAGES.  45 

in  the  church,  too ;  the  devil  taking  that  opportu- 
nity to  sow  dissensions  and  hatred  in  the  hearts  of 
two-thirds  of  the  members. 

Meanwhile  Martha  and  Maria  cherished  as  bitter 
animosity  against  each  other  as  their  husbands  did. 
They  never  visited  the  same  neighbors,  nor  met 
each  other  at  the  same  sewing-circles,  if  they  could 
help  it.  If  Maria  received  an  invitation  to  visit  a 
friend,  she  was  sure  to  ascertain  if  Martha  was  to 
be  there  before  accepting  it ;  and  Martha  was  no 
less  scrupulous  in  avoiding  her  sister-in-law.  On 
one  occasion,  when  Maria  arrived  at  a  tea-party, 
and  found  Martha  there,  she  turned  abruptly  about, 
and  went  home  in  high  dudgeon;  in  return  for 
which  demonstration,  Martha,  a  few  weeks  after- 
wards, suddenly  took  her  departure  from  a  quilting- 
bee,  when  Maria,  unconscious  of  her  presence,  made 
her  appearance.  These  quarrels  and  petty  spites 
created  a  great  deal  of  scandal  and  ill-will  in  the 
neighborhood,  until  the  good  ladies  of  Pennfield, 
tired  of  strife  and  dissensions,  resolved,  with  one 
accord,  to  drop  the  acquaintance  of  the  Feltona 
altogether.  So  Martha  and  Maria  received  no  more 
invitations  to  any  place ;  and  you  may  judge  how 
miserable  they  were,  living  by  themselves. 

On  the  last  occasion  of  a  tea-party  at  Maria's 
house,  an  incident  happened  which  particularly  had 
something  to  do  with  the  subsequent  coldness  of  the 


46  THE   TWIN   COTTAGES. 

Pennfield  ladies  towards  the  two  sisters-in-law.  Of 
course,  Martha  was  horribly  jealous  to  see  so  many 
famous  tea-drinkers  visiting  her  rival ;  and  she 
fretted  and  scolded  about  it  all  the  afternoon.  Ed- 
ward took  the  hint,  to  invent  some  method  of  an- 
noying Maria,  and  pleasing  his  mother. 

In  the  field  in  the  rear  of  Lionel's  house  was  a 
large  brush-heap,  the  result  of  trimming  the  orchard 
the  previous  season. 

"  The  brush  is  dry,  and  the  wind  in  the  south- 
west," said  Edward. 

"  And  the  smoke  ?  " 

"  Will  hide  Dick's  house  in  a  beautiful  manner." 

"  Burn  the  heap,  then ! "  cried  Martha,  with  a 
malicious  laugh. 

Accordingly  the  heap  was  fired,  and  Richard's 
house  smoked.  It  was  a  warm  day,  but  Maria  was 
obliged  to  close  all  the  doors  and  windows,  to  keep 
out  the  suffocating  cloud  which  rolled-  down  upon 
them  before  the  south-west  wind.  In  spite  of  all 
her  efforts,  however,  it  got  into  the  house,  and  into 
the  eyes  and  into  the  tempers  of  both  her  and  her 
gues'ts.  Even  the  tea  failed  to  soothe  them  ;  and 
the  party  separated  in  the  worst  humor  in  the 
world.  Martha  watched  the  discomfited  ladies,  as 
they  went  away  all  enveloped  in  smoke,  and  laughed 
until  the  tears  ran  down  her  cheeks.  Edward 
laughed  too,  until  the  wind  changed,  and  blew  the 


THE  TWIN   COTTAGES.  47 

fire  into  the  fence,  which  he  was  obliged  to  sit  up 
all  night  to  watch,  with  a  couple  of  buckets  of  water 
for  his  companions.  After  this,  Richard's  boys 
burned  a  brush-heap  when  the  wind  was  in  the 
north-west,  and  smoked  a  juvenile  party  which 
their  cousin  Martha  gave,  to  the  great  distress  of 
the  poor  children,  who  went  home  with  tears  in 
their  eyes. 

But  the  rival  families  were  destined  to  have 
enough  of  fire  and  smoke,  as  we  shall  proceed  t<? 
show. 

After  watching  many  months  for  an  opportunity 
to  shoot  Richard's  dog,  —  which  manifested  a  great 
deal  of  canine  sagacity  in  avoiding  Lionel's  prem- 
ises, and  in  scrupulously  keeping  on  the  right  side 
of  the  board-fence,  —  Edward  determined  to  have  a 
dog  too,  as  large  as  his  uncle's.  He  accordingly 
purchased  a  pup,  of  a  breed  famous  for  size  and 
fierceness,  and  kept  him  chained  to  his  kennel  until 
he  had  attained  to  formidable  proportions.  In  the 
pride  and  ambition  of  his  youth,  Caesar  took  early 
advantage  of  his  freedom  from  the  chain,  to  invade 
the  territory  beyond  the  board-fence,  and  declare 
hostilities  against  the  unknown  dog,  whose  hated 
bark  he  had  heard  so  often.  Nero,  feeling,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  a  bitter  enmity  towards  everything 
that  made  its  appearance  from  the  other  side  of  the 
fence,  marched  up  to  Csesar  in  true  Roman  fashion, 


48  THE   TWIN    COTTAGES. 

and,  with  a  growl,  challenged  him  to  a  personal 
combat.  The  ambitious  Caesar  desired  nothing 
better ;  but  Nero's  maturity  and  knowledge  of  the 
world  were  altogether  too  much  for  his  youth  and 
inexperience.  Caesar  was  discomfited,  and  returned 
to  his  rightful  dominions  in  a  frightfully  mutilated 
condition. 

Caesar,  for  a  long  time,  did  not  cross  the  board 
fence  again,  but  contented  himself  with  growling  on 
his  own  territory  at  his  formidable  enemy,  who  re- 
garded him  with  lofty  disdain.  One  evening,  how- 
ever, four  years  after  the  removal  of  the  brothers 
into  their  new  cottages,  Caesar  had  the  audacity  to 
chase  one  of  Kichard's  cats  over  the  line.  Richard, 
who  happened  to  be  in  the  yard  at  the  time,  whis- 
tled for  Nero,  whose  rage  was  unbounded  on  seeing 
his  rival  within  his  domains.  A  skirmish  ensued, 
and  Caesar  retreated  over  the  board-fence ;  but 
Nero,  too  much  excited  to  use  his  ordinary  discre- 
tion, followed  him,  and  fought  him  upon  his  own 
territory,  reckless  of  consequences. 

Lionel  heard  the  affray ;  and,  it  being  late  in  the 
evening,  and  quite  dark,  he  came  out,  with  a  lantern, 
to  see  what  was  the  matter.  Perceiving  that  Nero 
had  Caesar  by  the  throat,  and  was  shaking  the  life 
out  of  him  with  considerable  despatch,  he  placed 
his  lantern  upon  the  ground,  and  ran  for  a  pitch- 
fork. 


THE  TWIN  COTTAGES.  49 

Observing  that  his  brother  was  about  to  make 
use  of  that  formidable  weapon,  to  terminate  the 
quarrel  in  favor  of  Caesar,  Richard  ran  hastily  to 
the  fence,  and  was  on  the  point  of  shouting  a  fierce 
remonstrance,  when  a  startling  accident  attracted 
his  attention.  Nero  had  thrown  Caesar  against  the 
lantern,  and  upset  it;  the  candle  had  fallen  out, 
and  now  the  flames  were  creeping  languidly  into  the 
straw  scattered  before  Lionel's  barn.  The  pressure 
of  a  foot  would  have  extinguished  the  fire,  and 
Richard's  first  impulse  was  to  warn  Lionel  of  the 
danger;  but,  when  he  saw  his  brother  set  upon 
Nero  with  the  fork,  he  thought,  in  his  anger,  "  The 
wind  is  north,  my  barn  will  not  be  in  danger,"  and 
held  his  peace,  shrinking  away  into  the  darkness, 
to  witness  the  result. 

Pierced  with  the  sharp  tines,  Nero  fled  howling 
over  the  fence,  pursued  by  Lionel,  until  beyond  his 
reach.  Then  Lionel  turned  back,  and,  to  his  con- 
sternation, saw  the  yard  all  in  a  blaze.  "  Fire ! 
fire ! "  he  shouted,  trampling  upon  the  flames. 
"  Fire  !  fire !  fire !  " 

His  shouts  filled  the  night  with  echoes.  A  mo- 
ment before,  Ilichard  had  been  laughing  in  malicious 
triumph ;  but  the  wild,  startling  cries  smote  heavily 
upon  his  conscience.  Much  as  he  felt  that  Lionel 
had  wronged  him,  the  sight  of  the  flames,  which  he 
5 


50  THE   TWIN   COTTAGES. 

might  have  extinguished,  oppressed  him  with  a  sense 
of  remorse. 

"  I  am  no  better  than  an  incendiary !  "  he  mut- 
tered, in  his  excitement.  "  But  it  may  not  yet  be 
too  late  !  " 

Lionel  trampled  upon  the  flames  with  furious 
energy ;  but  the  straw  was  dry,  and  he  saw  the  fire 
gaining  upon  him,  and,  darting  its  forked  tongue 
towards  the  barn,  threatening  destruction.  In  de- 
spair he  cast  his  eyes  toward  the  house,  and  shouted 
again  for  help.  Nobody  appeared.  The  fire  was 
within  three  yards  of  a  large  pile  of  straw,  heaped 
before  the  barn-door.  Suddenly  Lionel  was  con- 
scious that  there  was  somebody  working  by  his  side. 
He  did  not  pause  to  see  who  it  was,  until  the  pile 
of  straw  burst  forth  one  sheet  of  flame.  He  turned, 
and  in  the  glare  of  light  saw  his  brother  Richard ! 

The  latter  was  laboring  with  despei'ate  energy  to 
smother  the  flames  beneath  his  coat;  and,  as  his 
brother  gazed  upon  him,  he  felt  all  his  resentment 
give  way  to  gratitude  for  that  one  act  of  gener- 
osity. 

"  Brother,"  said  he,  in  a  trembling  voice,  "  I 
thank  you!  But  it  is  too  late;  the  barn  must 
go." 

Richard  raised  his  eyes  to  his  brother's  face,  and 
slowly  withdrawing  from  the  heat  of  the  flames, 
murmured, 


THE   TWIN   COTTAGES.  51 

"  I  am  sorry  !     I  am  sorry  !  " 

"  God  bless  you,  brother  !  I  did  not  expect  this 
kindness  !  "  exclaimed  the  agitated  Lionel. 

"This  is  no  time  to  talk,"  said  Richard;  "the 
wind  is  getting  into  the  west.  I  am  afraid  your 
house  will  go  too,  brother !  " 

As  he  spoke,  the  dry  straw  and  hay  within  the 
barn  having  taken  fire,  the  flames  burst  forth  through 
the  cracks  and  crevices,  and  through  the  thin  roof, 
throwing  a  wild  glare  of  light  around. 


VII. THE    LAST   OP   THE   TWIN    COTTAGES. 

The  brothers  rushed  to  the  stables  adjoining  the 
barn,  and  made  haste  to  save  the  horses,  the  car- 
riage, and  all  articles  of  value  which  could  be  got 
away.  Meanwhile  Edward,  who  had  gone  to  bed, 
was  aroused  by  the  alarm,  and  rushed,  half  dressed, 
to  the  scene  of  destruction.  Jackson  and  Wolcott 
came  next,  and,  taking  example  from  their  father, 
exerted  themselves  to  save  their  uncle's  property ; 
then  several  of  the  neighbors,  aroused  by  the  shouts 
of  fire,  and  alarmed  by  the  glare  of  light,  came 
hurrying  to  the  spot. 

The  barn  burnt  like  kindling-wood ;  the  stables 
were  on  fire  in  an  astonishingly  brief  space  of  time, 
and  the  flames  went  surging  on  towards  the  house. 


52  THE  TWIX   COTTAGES. 

"  Leave  everything,"  shouted  Richard,  "  and 
remove  this  wood !  It  is  the  only  way  to  save  the 
house ! " 

The  wood  was  corded  in  long  rows  between  the 
stables  and  the  cottage;  and,  following  Richard's 
example,  all  hands  went  to  work,  tearing  it  away  ; 
but,  as  the  fire  increased,  the  heat  became  insuffer- 
able. The  smoke  and  flames  rolled  across  the  wood- 
piles, blinding  and  suffocating,  and  conspiring,  with 
the  heat,  to  drive  the  fire-fighters  backward.  The 
most  they  could  do  was  to  remove  a  few  cords  of 
the  wood  nearest  the  house ;  then,  while  some  began 
to  carry  the  furniture  out  of  the  cottage,  others 
brought  water  from  the  well  and  cistern,  and,  with 
the  aid  of  ladders,  drenched  the  clapboards  and 
roof. 

All  efforts  were  vain,  however. 

"  The  house  must  go  !  "  said  Lionel. 

The  wind  had  increased,  and  the  advancing  flames 
had  driven  the  inexperienced  fire-fighters  from  their 
position  on  *he  roof. 

"  I  will  \nount  the  ladder  !  "  cried  Richard. 

He  went  up,  and  received  the  buckets  from  Lio- 
nel's hands,  working  with  energy  and  courage,  until 
both  cistern  and  well  failed. 

"It  is  useless  to  work  longer,"  said  Lionel. 
"  There  is  no  more  water." 


THE   TWIN    COTTAGES.  53 

"  Then  the  house  must  surely  burn ! "  said 
Richard. 

"  And  my  family !  "  murmured  Lionel,  as  he 
saw  his  wife  and  children  carrying  goods  out  of  the 
house,  or  standing  in  the  fierce  light,  looking  up 
with  terror  and  dismay  at  the  increasing  flames. 
"  They  will  be  houseless  !  " 

"  Not  so !  "  replied  Richard.  "  The  old  house  is 
at  your  disposal.  I  was  going  to  tear  it  down  last 
fall,  but  I  am  glad  I  did  not.  It  is  yours,  brother !  " 

Lionel  was  too  much  affected  to  utter  his  thanks. 

At  that  moment  a  wild  shout  rang  upon  their 
ears.  Richard's  barn  was  on  fire ! 

"  I  am  ruined  by  my  own  folly  and  guilt !  "  he 
muttered,  as  he  descended  to  the  ground. 

The  brothers  rushed  together  to  the  new  scene  of 
excitement.  It  was  too  late.  The  fire,  left  to 
itself,  had  crept  from  barn  to  barn  through  the 
straw,  and  now  Richard's  stables  were  in  a  blaze. 
The  wind  had  increased,  and  was  blowing  strongly 
from  the  west.  Lionel  neglected  his  own  property 
to  save  that  of  his  brother ;  and,  while  the  cottage 
of  the  former  was  left  to  inevitable  destruction, 
everybody  ran  to  the  rescue  of  Richard's.  But  his 
cistern  was  dry,  his  well  shallow,  and  between  his 
house  and  barn  there  was  a  hay-stack  in  a  most 
dangerous  position.  This  was  sure  to  burn  ;  for  the 
sparks  from  the  barn  were  already  falling  upon  it, 


54  THE   TWIN   COTTAGES. 

and  nothing,  it  was  thought,  could  then  save  the 
cottage. 

Maria  had  experienced  a  sort  of  fearful  joy  when 
told  that  Lionel's  buildings  were  on  fire  ;  but,  when 
she  saw  Richard  at  work  to  save  them,  she  also 
began  to  feel  an  anxiety  to  see  the  flames  extin- 
guished. This  kindness  towards  her  neighbors  was 
followed  by  many  unpleasant  reflections  touching 
the  past,  and  the  sight  of  Martha  in  distress  made 
her  conscious  that  she  had  wronged  her  sister-in-law 
more  than  she  had  ever  acknowledged  to  herself 
before.  So,  when  she  saw  Martha  retire  to  the  fatal 
fence,  and  weep  bitterly  over  her  misfortunes,  she 
went  to  her,  and  asked  her  to  come  into  her  own 
house.  Martha  felt  this  kindness,  and  thanked  her ; 
but  she  could  not  go  in,  —  she  must  see  her  own 
cottage  burn. 

Then,  when  the  alarm  was  spread  on  Richard's 
side  of  the  fence,  all  Maria's  pity  and  anxiety  for 
others  was  changed  to  fear  for  the  safety  of  her 
own  home.  Martha  saw  the  danger;  and,  although 
a  moment  before  she  might  have  felt  a  vindictive 
joy  at  beholding  Maria  as  unfortunate  as  herself,  it 
was  not  so  now ;  for  even  Richard's  exertions  in 
her  behalf  had  not  touched  her  heart  like  Maria's 
single  word  of  kindness.  Women  are  more  impul- 
sive than  men ;  and  nothing  knits  together  hearts 
at  enmity  like  mutual  distress.  Martha  and  Maria 


THE  TWIN   COTTAGES.  55 

fell  into  each  other's  arms,  and  embraced,  mingling 
their  tears  together. 

Richard's  fears  for  his  cottage  were  but  too  well 
founded.  The  flames  blew  upon  it  from  the  stack, 
the  shingles  caught,  and  all  exertions  to  save  it 
were  vain.  Soon  its  light  was  added  to  the  -general 
conflagration,  and  billows  of  fire  surged  upward 
from  the  roaring  roof,  illumining  the  country  for 
miles  around. 

Richard  had  been  even  more  successful  than  his 
brother  in  saving  his  portable  property,  which  was 
all  conveyed  to  a  safe  distance  from  the  fire. 

When  everything  was  done,  the  brothers  stood 
together  in  the  glare  of  light  which  shone  from 
Richard's  house,  and  their  families  gathered  around 
them. 

"  You  see,"  said  Richard,  "  I  shall  have  to  go 
with  you  into  the  old  house." 

"  Pardon  me,"  replied  Lionel ;  "  I  am  afraid  you 
will  want  it  alone,  with  your  own  family." 

"  There  is  room  for  all  of  us,"  said  Richard. 
"  There  was  once,  —  there  is  now  !  " 

"  Will  you  give  me  your  hand,  brother  ?  "  asked 
Lionel. 

Richard  made  no  reply ;  but  extended  his  hand, 
while  the  dazzling  light  from  the  house  betrayed  the 
emotion  visible  on  his  features. 

"  We  have  not  thriven  since  our  separation," 


56  THE  TWIN  COTTAGES. 

pursued  Lionel.  "  Ours  has  been  an  ungodly  quar« 
rel,  brother.  Shall  it  end  here  ?  " 

"  There  can  loe  no  better  time,"  replied  Richard. 
"  After  the  awful  chastisement  with  which  Heaven 
has  punished  our  folly,  we  should  be  reconciled.  I 
acknowledge  myself  to  blame,  brother.  I  ask  your 
forgiveness !  " 

"  With  all  my  heart  I  forgive  you,  Richard ! " 
exclaimed  Lionel,  through  his  quivering  lips.  "  And 
you  will  forgive  me,  although  I  have  been  more  to 
blame  than  you.  As  I  was  the  oldest,  I  should 
have  come  to  you  first  to  offer  you  my  hand,  when 
we  quarrelled." 

"  Say  no  more,"  murmured  Richard.  "  I  for- 
give everything.  Here  is  my  hand  again,  brother ! 
And  our  wives " 

Martha  and  Maria  were  weeping  again  in  each 
other's  arms. 

"  This  is  well !  "  said  Lionel.  "  Let  this  end  all 
differences,  law-suits  and  strife,  which  have  proved 
so  ruinous.  We  will  tear  up  the  papers,  brother, 
which  divide  our  lands." 

"  And  the  old  house,"  added  Richard,  smiling 
through  his  tears,  "  will  be  large  enough  and  good 
enough  for  our  families,  for  ten  years  to  come." 

"  We  will  never  leave  it  till  it  falls  down !  " 
cried  Lionel.  "  We  were  happy  in  it  before  the 
new  house  was  thought  of,  and  we  can  be  happy  in 


THE  TWIN   COTTAGES  57 

it  still.  And  0,  brother,  —  sister,  —  wife,  —  chil- 
dren !  let  these  four  terrible  years  of  unhappiness 
and  strife  be  a  warning  to  us  in  future  !  " 

They  stopped  not  for  the  congratulation  of 
friends,  but  by  the  light  of  the  burning  cottages 
took  their  way  together  across  the  fields,  towards 
the  old  house,  which  was  henceforth  to  be  the  happy 
home  of  the  reunited  families. 


MARRYING  A  FAMILY. 


"  I  HOPE  it  is  all  for  the  best,"  said  Mrs.  Rentwell, 
wiping  her  eyes.  "  You  will  excuse  these  tears,  Mr. 
Allen.  It  is  a  solemn  thing  to  part  with  a  dear  one 
out  of  my  household,  Mr.  Allen  !  " 

The  sigh  which  followed  these  words  touched  Mr. 
Allen's  sympathies.  Mrs.  Rentwell  had  four  grown- 
up, unmarried  daughters,  all  at  home ;  and  he  had 
been  so  bold  as  to  ask  her  to  part  with  one  of  them. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  she  was  making  a  great  sac- 
rifice ;  for,  being  a  strong-minded  woman,  she  had 
never  betrayed  such  weakness  before ;  and  he  took 
her  hand  kindly. 

"  Mrs.  Rentwell,"  said  he,  "  I  appreciate  your 
feelings." 

"  0,  you  can't,  you  can't ! "  she  exclaimed,  re- 
lapsing into  a  state  of  great  affliction,  and  using  her 
handkerchief  energetically,  —  "  nobody  but  a  mother 


MARRYING  A   FAMILY.  59 

"  At  all  events,"  rejoined  Mr.  Allen,  "  I  shall 
never  cease  my  efforts  to  repay  you  for  your  confi- 
dence in  me,  and  for  the  great  happiness  you  confer 
upon  me,  in  giving  your  consent  to  our  marriage. 
I  fed » 

"One  thing,"  broke  in  the  widow,  explosively, 
"  I  beg  and  entreat  of  you." 

"  Only  name  it,  dear  mother  !  " 

"  It  is  this  :  don't  separate  Sarah  Jane  from  her 
family.  Don't  take  her  away  from  us.  Consid- 
er "  —  sobbing  —  "a  —  a  —  mother's  feelings,  Mr. 
Allen." 

Mr.  Allen  was  silent ;  —  he  appeared  to  be  con- 
sidering. 

"  Can't  we  all  live  together  ?  Can't  we  take  a 
comfortable  house,  —  one  that  will  accommodate  us 
all  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Rentwell,  with  a  hopeful  expres- 
sion. "  How  beautifully  we  could  live  under  the 
same  roof;  and  what  a  happy  home  we  could  make 
for  you  and  Sarah  Jane  !  " 

"  Why  —  yes  —  certainly  —  I  should  think  some 
such  arrangement  would  be  advisable,"  said  Jon- 
athan, with  a  look  of  painful  apprehension  ; 
«  but " 

"  0,  thank  you,  thank  you,  Mr.  Allen  !  You 
are  so  good ! "  cried  the  widow,  overflowing  with 
gratitude.  "  What  a  delightful  home  we  shall 
have  !  Bless  you !  bless  you ! " 


60  MARRYING   A   FAMILY. 

Mrs.  Rentwell  shook  his  hand,  weeping  profusely 
for  joy. 

Jonathan  Allen  went  away  as  if  he  had  the  head- 
ache. There  was  evidently  some  uncomfortable  mat- 
ter in  his  mind.  He  was  very  happy  in  a  general 
way,  but  in  one  or  two  particulars  he  was  troubled. 
Meeting  an  intimate  friend  did  not  at  all  serve  to 
clear  away  the  clouds  from  the  summer  sky  of  his 
hopes.  _ 

Of  all  his  acquaintance,  Mr.  Charles  Price  was 
the  last  man  he  would  have  wished  to  meet  just  at 
that  time. 

"  Don't  say  a  word,"  he  hastily  whispered,  with 
a  ghastly,  guilty  look.  "  I  'm  afraid  it 's  too  late 
now  to  follow  your  advice." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say " 

"Yea,  Charley  !  —  the  old  lady  expects  it,  and  I 
can't  disappoint  her.  Sarah  Jane  expects  it,  too ; 
and  so  do  her  sisters.  They  all  expect  it,  you  see ; 
and  I  can't  be  cruel  to  them  just  at  this  time." 

"  Then  I  give  you  up,  Jonathan,"  said  Mr.  Price, 
with  a  lugubrious  look.  "  If  you  marry  the  whole 
family,  never  smile  more  !  " 

"  Fie  !  you  make  the  matter  worse  than  it  is.  I 
shall  take  a  decided  stand,  and  be  the  head  of  the 
establishment.  The  girls  will  get  married  off  in  a 
little  while,  and  in  the  mean  time  we  shall  make 
quite  a  happy  family." 


MARRYING   A   FAMILY.  Gl 

Mr.  Price  shook  his  head  dubiously. 

"  You  will  be  obliged  to  take  a  decided  stand,  at 
once,  if  you  would  have  things  move  harmoniously 
your  own  way,"  said  he,  significantly.  "  Sarah  Jane 
is  a  sweet  and  amiable  girl,  but  she  is  easily  influ- 
enced, as  you  know.  Her  mother  is  a  headstrong, 
selfish,  inconsiderate  woman.  Her  sisters  are  frivo- 
lous, cold-hearted  creatures;  and  the  question  is, 
are  they  the  right  persons  to  influence  her  ?  " 

"  As  to  that,"  replied  Jonathan,  smiling  with  a 
bright  idea,  "  if  I  find  affairs  taking  a  wrong  turn, 
it  will  be  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  for  me  to 
get  a  divorce  from  the  whole  family,  except  Sarah 
Jane.  If  the  old  lady  usurps  too  much  authority, 
if  the  sisters  rebel,  if  there  is  any  tyranny  exercised 
over  me  or  mine,  —  crack  !  I  shall  cut  off  all  com- 
munication between  us,  without  a  remorseful  scruple 
I  shall  unmarry  myself  from  Mrs.  Rentwell,  Miss 
Rentwell,  Miss  Eliza  and  Miss  Georgiana,  in  a  jiffy. 
Do  you  understand  ?  " 

"  I  only  hope  you  will  find  the  matter  as  easy  in 
reality  as  it  appears  to  your  imagination,"  laughed 
Charles.  "  Good-morning." 

The  wedding  took  place  in  the  course  of  a  few 
weeks,  and,  shortly  after,  Jonathan  took  Sarah  Jane 
and  her  family  "  home." 

"  So,"  said  Mr.  Price,  meeting  him  the  day  after 
6 


62  MARRYING   A   FAMILY. 

the  removal,  "you  have  finally  married  the  whole 
tribe  of  the  Ilentwells,  —  mother  and  daughters." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Mr.  Allen,  \vho  was  very  jolly  at 
the  time,  and  did  not  care  a  fig  for  his  friend's  fore- 
bodings, "  I  am  a  regular  Sultan.  Show  me  a  hap- 
pier man,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Be  careful  that  you  don't  show  me  an  unhappier 
one,  before  the  honeymoon  is  over." 

"  Now,  what  an  ill-natured  fellow  you  are,  Charles ! 
But  I  see  you  have  no  idea  of  the  perfect  harmony 
that  prevails  in  my  new  home.  The  old  lady  has 
kindly  volunteered  to  take  the  general  management 
of  the  household " 

"  So  soon  ?  "  said  Mr.  Price,  with  a  sly  look. 

"  Why  not  ?  You  see,  my  wife  —  how  respecta- 
ble and  manly  it  sounds,  though,  Charley,  to  say  my 
wife !  —  Sarah  Jane  is  not  accustomed  to  managing, 
and  it  is  a  great  relief  for  her  to  think  that  her 
mother  is  to  be  with  us,  and  direct  aflairs  into  an 
easy  and  natural  channel." 

"  And  the  girls  ?  " 

"  0,  they  are  rejoiced  at  the  new  arrangement. 
We  shall  have  some  gay  times,  I  and  my  family, 
Charles.  By  the  way,  when  shall  we  expect  a 
visit  from  you,  at  our  harem  ?  " 

"  Generous  man  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Price.  "  I 
would  hold  you  up  to  the  wcrld  as  a  nzcdel  of  mag- 


MARRYING    A   FAMILY.  63 

nanimous  Sultans  !  Have  you  no  jealous  apprehen' 
sions  in  taking  me  into  the  bosom  of  your  family  ?  " 

"Eh?  how  so?" 

"What  if  I  should  make  love  to  one  of  your 
vrives  ?  Supposing  my  elegant  address  should  touch 
the  heart  of  the  proud  Miss  Rcntwell  ?  What  would 
you  say,  should  the  fair  Georgiana  be  captivated  by 
my  whiskers  ?  or,  if  I  should  be  so  happy  as  to  win 
the  affections  of  the  widow  herself  ?  How  would  you 
suppress  your  just  indignation,  and  swallow  your 
wrath,  if  some  fine  morning  you  should  learn  that  I 
had  eloped  with  Eliza  ?  " 

"  Considering  the  regard  I  have  for  you,  Charles, 
I  don't  know  but  I  would  forgive  you,  in  either 
case." 

"  You  think  you  could  perhaps  spare  one " 

"  Now,  have  done  with  your  bitter  sarcasm ! " 
exclaimed  Mr.  Allen,  with  a  feeble  laugh  of  good- 
humor.  "  Say  no  more,  but  come  to  the  interior  of 
my  harem,  and  judge  of  our  happiness  for  yourself 
Come  to-morrow  night." 

Mr.  Price  promised ;  and  Jonathan  went  home 
singing. 

"  This  is  cosey ! "  he  murmured,  rubbing  his  hands 
as  he  entered  the  family  parlor,  where  a  beautiful  fire 
in  the  grate  shed  a  warm  glow  upon  the  high  walls, 
the  new  furniture,  and  the  happy  faces  of  Mrs.  Rent- 


64  MABRYINO   A   FAMILY. 

well  and  her  four  daughters.  "  But  where — where 
is  the  seraphine  ?  " 

"  0,  dear  Jonathan,"  cried  Sarah  Jane,  running 
to  him  and  looking  him  fondly  in  the  face,  "  you 
won't  mind,  will  you  ?  —  mother  thought  it  would 
be  better  to  keep  it  in  our  chamber " 

"  Up  stairs  ? "  said  Mr.  Allen,  with  a  surprised 
look. 

"  Did  you  intend  to  have  the  seraphine  kept  down 
here  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Rentwell. 

There  was  an  immense  deal  of  meaning  in  the 
tones  of  her  voice  and  in  the  expression  of  her  face 
as  she  spoke.  Was  it  possible  that  Jonathan  could 
think  of  so  absurd  a  plan  as  keeping  the  old  sera- 
phine in  the  parlor  ?  Was  that  one  of  his  ideas  of 
propriety  ? 

Mr.  Allen  smiled  pleasantly.  He  knew  Mrs.  Rent- 
well  was  a  very  strong-minded  woman,  and  that  she 
could  be  dreadfully  severe  on  the  weak  points  of 
others.  His  desire  to  have  his  old  musical  compan- 
ion in  the  parlor  might  be  a  weak  point  in  his  char- 
acter. If  so,  he  did  not  think  it  advisable  to  urge 
the  matter.  Accordingly,  he  said,  in  the  most  con- 
ciliatory tone  he  could  command, 

"  Indeed,  I  had  not  thought  that  there  could  be 
any  great  objection  to " 

"  The  seraphine  is  an  old  box ! "  spoke  up  Miss 
Rentwell,  with  a  slight  curl  of  her  lip. 


MARRYING  A  FAMILJT.  65 

"  Don't  you  think  it  —  might  —  look  out  of  place 
in  the  parlor  ?  "  affectionately  inquired  Sarah  Jane. 
"  Do  you  think  so  ?  " 
"  I  don't  know,  dear  Jonathan,  I  am  sure.    Mother 


"  We  do  think  it  -would  be  out  of  place  in  the 
parlor,"  joined  in  Mrs.  Kentwell,  firmly.  "You 
don't  know  how  bad  it  looks,  if  you  have  not  com- 
pared its  worn  mahogany  with  the  new  furniture." 

"  Besides,"  said  Eliza,  with  a  glance  at  her  mother, 
as  if  for  support,  "  I  should  n't  think  a  parlor  was 
furnished,  now-a-days,  without  a  piano." 

"  The  girls  do  need  a  piano ;  but,  about  that,  of 
course  you  will  do  just  as  you  've  a  mind  to,"  added 
the  mother.  "  Sarah  Jane  ought  not  to  go  behind- 
hand with  her  practice." 

"  0,  no,  that  is  true,"  answered  Jonathan,  with 
a  cloudy  expression. 

"  We  've  always  had  a  piano,"  remarked  Georgi- 
ana,  the  youngest  of  the  family,  "  and  it  would  be 
a  shame  to  be  without  one  now." 

"  Not  a  shame ;  that  is  a  harsh  expression,  my 
dear,"  said  the  widow.  "  Of  course,  Mr.  Allen  will 
do  as  he  pleases,"  she  continued,  significantly. 

"  I  don't  care ;  everybody  has  pianos,"  said  Geor- 
giana. 

"  And  we  will  have  one,"  cried  Jonathan,  gener- 
ously, prompted  by  Sarah  Jane's  distressed  look. 


66  MARKYING   A   FAMILY. 

"  Certainly  we  \vill  have  a  piano.  I  should  have 
made  arrangements  for  one  before  this ;  but  you  had 
one  in  the  other  house,  you  know,  and  I  supposed 
you  would  bring  it  with  you ;  that  is,"  said  he,  cor- 
recting himself,  for  fear  of  giving  offence,  "  I  thought 
it  belonged  to  you,  —  I  mean  —  I  —  I  did  n't  know 
it  was  a  hired  one." 

Mrs.  Rentwell  sighed,  and  looked  sternly  resigned ; 
Miss  Rentwell  sneered ;  Eliza  gave  Mr.  Allen  an  in- 
dignant glance ;  and  Georgiana  turned  her  eyes  upon 
her  mother,  as  if  expecting  some  reply.  Sarah  Jane 
was  more  distressed  than  ever ;  and  her  husband 
grew  very  warm  about  the  face,  conscious  of  having 
inadvertently  mentioned  a  delicate  subject. 

"  I  '11  have  a  piano  sent  home  to-morrow,"  said 
he,  cheerily,  by  way  of  giving  a  happy  turn  to  his 
remarks,  and  preventing  any  misconstruction.  "  I 
should  have  done  so  before.  Now  I  think  of  it,  the 
chamber  is  the  best  place  for  the  seraphine,  is  n't  it, 
Sarah?" 

He  drew  a  chair  to  the  fire.  His  young  wife's 
face  brightened  as  she  laid  her  hand  in  his,  and 
thanked  him,  with  a  grateful  and  loving  heart,  for 
his  kindness ;  and  sunshine  stole  upon  the  faces  of 
the  family. 

"  I  've  good  news  for  you,  girls,"  said  Jonathan, 
at  the  tea-table,  as  he  passed  the  biscuit.  "  Guess 
who  is  coining  to  see  us." 


MARRYIXG   A    FAMILY.  67 

They  all  guessed,  except  Miss  Rentwell,  who 
probably  thought  guessing  beneath  her  dignity. 
Nobody  guessed  right. 

"Why  don't  you  tell,  and  have  done  with  it?" 
asked  Laura,  not  very  good-naturedly. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Rentwell,"  replied 
Jonathan,  laughing. 

"  There 's  no  occasion ;  only  this  guess-work  is 
kind  of  childish." 

Laura  glanced  at  her  mother,  who  was  pouring 
the  tea.  Mrs.  Rentwdll  smiled,  without  looking 
up  —  as  if  she  had  said,  "Mr.  Allen  has  got  a 
good  hint,  this  time." 

Sarah  Jane,  who  was  dishing  the  preserves, 
raised  her  eyes  to  her  sister's  with  a  pleasant  smile, 
and  told  her,  "  she  thought  her  dignity  very  becom- 
ing." 

"  '  T  would  be  well  if  you  had  a  little  more  of 
the  quality,"  said  Laura,  with  a  smile  not  quite  so 
pleasant. 

"  Never  mind  your  dignity,"  cried  Georgiana. 
"  Let 's  hear  who  it  is.  A  gentleman,  I  am  sure  — 
didn't  you  confess  as  much,  Mr.  Allen?  Is  he 
handsome  ? " 

"  And  single  ?  "  added  Eliza. 

"  I  Ve  guessed  !  "  exclaimed  Sarah.  "  It 's 
Charles  Price." 

"  So  it  is,"  said  Jonathan. 


68  MARRYING   A   FAMILY. 

"  0,  good  !  "  cried  Georgiana.  "  He  's  very 
handsome." 

"  He  's  very  disagreeable,"  remarked  Miss  Rent- 
well. 

"  Everybody  is  disagreeable  that  don't  happen  to 
fancy  you,  and  pay  you  all  the  attention  in  the 
world.  For  my  part,  I  think  he 's  beautiful.  When 
is  he  coming  ?  " 

"  To-morrow  night ;  and  I  think  we  will  have  a 
delightful  evening.  Charles  is  a  fine  musician." 

"  We  shall  have  use  for  the  new  piano,"  said 
Sarah.  "  He  is  a  splendid  player." 

"  He  thunders  —  he  don't  play,"  observed  Laura. 

"  There !  I  knew  Miss  Sourface  would  have 
some  fault  to  find,"  exclaimed  Georgiana.  "  She 
always  does,  when  she  don't  like  a  person.  But 
you  can't  say  he  is  not  an  exquisite  singer  ?  " 

"  Rather  exquisite,  I  must  confess,"  replied 
Laura,  sarcastically.  "  His  voice  reminds  me  of  a 
rusty  door-hinge." 

Jonathan  was  too  happy  to  care  much  for  any- 
thing that  was  said  out  of  ill-temper  by  even  the 
dignified  Laura.  He  laughed,  and  asked  the  widow's 
opinion  of  Mr.  Charles  Price. 

"  I  don't  know  any  harm  of  him,"  she  said, 
gravely.  "  But  I  should  hardly  have  expected  y  •« 
to  engage  him  for  to-morrow  night." 

"  Why  not  ? " 


MAKRYINO  A  FAMILY.  69 

"  You  know  that  our  Sisterhood  meets  on  Wednes- 
day evening." 

Mr.  Allen's  risible  muscles  were  drawn  irresisti- 
bly, by  the  widow's  remark. 

"  I  do  not  see  how  Mr.  Charles  Price  and  the 
Sisterhood  can  interfere  with  each  other  in  the 
least,"  said  he. 

"  0,  certainly  not,  if  you  prefer  to  receive  com-, 
pany  when  I  am  absent,"  very  quietly  replied  Mrs. 
Kentwell,  with  a  grim  smile. 

Jonathan  hastened  to  disclaim  the  very  shadow 
of  so  unworthy  a  motive. 

"  You  know  I  would  much  prefer  to  have  you 
at  home,"  said  he.  "  I  shall  always  wish  you  to 
be  here  when  we  have  company." 

"  If  not,  I  suppose  I  can  make  myself  comforta- 
ble somewhere  else,"  rejoined  the  widow,  not  at  all 
mollified  ;  "  only  let  me  know  when  I  am  not 
wanted." 

"  0,  mother !  don't  talk  so ! "  pleaded  Sarah 
Jane. 

"  It  is  not  because  I  feel  hurt,  my  daughter." 
Mrs.  Rentwell  sipped  her  tea.  "  I  don't  care,  on 
my  own  account." 

Nobody  asked  on  whose  account  it  was  she  felt 
anxious,  and  after  a  pause  she  resumed  — 

"  I  hope  you  have  no  desire  to  keep  my  daughters 
away  from  our  meeting,  Mr.  Allen  ?  They  ought 


70  MARRYING   A    FAMILY. 

to  go ;  and  it  was  at  least  inconsiderate  to  invito 
Mr.  Price  here  on  Wednesday  evening." 

"  A  thought  of  the  Sisterhood  never  entered  my 
head,"  said  Jonathan,  his  spirits  a  little  dashed. 
"  But,  never  mind ;  I  will  see  Charles  to-morrow, 
and  make  different  arrangements." 

Eliza,  Sarah  and  Georgiana,  were  opposed  to  the 
proposition.  They  would  rather  stay  at  home  and 
have  company  than  go  to  the  meeting ;  but  Laura 
sided  with  her  mother,  and  Jonathan  had  nothing 
more  to  say. 

On  the  following  morning  he  saw  his  friend,  and 
gave  him  a  partial  account  of  the  circumstances  of 
the  case.  Charles  laughed,  reminded  Mr.  Allen  of 
his  determination  to  take  a  decided  stand  as  the 
head  of"  the  family,  and  cautioned  him  against  suf- 
fering too  much  encroachment  upon  his  liberties. 

"  Anything  for  peace,"  murmured  Jonathan. 

"  Ho,  ho  !  has  it  got  to  that  ?  "  ejaculated  Mr. 
Price.  "  Your  freedom  is  going  to  ruin  faster  than 
I  had  any  notion  of !  " 

The  bachelor  made  his  promised  call  some  two 
weeks  later,  and  found  all  Jonathan's  family  at 
home.  He  brought  a  friend  with  him;  and  the 
girls,  in  high  spirits,  prepared  for  a  gay  evening. 
The  new  piano  was  made  use  of  to  some  purpose ; 
everything  went  off  well ;  and  even  Laura  conde- 
scended to  enjoy  herself  with  the  rest.  One  little 


MARRYING    A    FAMILY.  71 

occurrence,  however,  towards  the  clcse  of  the  even- 
ing, marred  the  happiness  of  the  circle. 

Mrs.  Kentwell  had  some  papers  she  wished  to 
read  to  the  young  men.  They  concerned  the  pros- 
perity of  the  Sisterhood  of  Universal  Harmony, 
to  which  she  belonged.  At  their  last  Wednes- 
day evening  meeting  it  .was  ascertained  that  the 
members  could  not  much  longer  continue  their 
united  efforts  to  harmonize  the  world  without  an 
accession  of  strength.  In  plain  terms,  money  was 
wanted. 

Mrs.  Rentwell  interrupted  herself,  in  the  reading 
of  the  documents,  to  make  these  explanations. 

"  Of  course,"  said  she,  "  I  shall  not  ask  either 
of  the  gentlemen  to  give  anything  to  the  cause ; 
but  if,  after  I  have  finished  reading  these  papers, 
which  they  will  find  exceedingly  interesting,  they 
should  feel  inclined  to  put  their  names  down  for 
any  small  sums,  I  would  simply  say  that  they 
may  thereby  be  the  means  of  doing  an  incalculable 
amount  of  good." 

"  Don't  read  these  old  papers  now,  mother ! " 
cried  Georgiana,  impatiently. 

SaTah  Jane  saw  her  husband's  features  writhing 
with  mortification  and  perplexity,  and  was  very 
much  distressed.  The  two  elder  girls  seated  them- 
selves quietly,  and  looked  very  serious  and  interest- 
ing ;  while  Mr.  Price  drew  down  one  corner  of  his 


72  MARRYING   A   FAMILY. 

mouth,  with  a  ludicrous  expression,  and  partly 
closed  an  eye,  for  the  express  edification  of  his 
friend,  Mr.  Allen.  Mr.  Leslie,  who  had  been  play- 
ing and  had  stopped  to  hear  Mrs.  Rentwell,  looked 
very  blank  for  two  or  three  minutes,  then,  coughing 
painfully  in  his  handkerchief,  turned  again  upon  the 
piano-stool,  and  began  to  study  a  sheet  of  music 
with  intense  application. 

Jonathan,  perspiring,  nervous  and  very  red,  tried 
to  say  something.  His  voice  sank  within  him  as 
often  as  he  raised  it  to  a  preparatory  "  hem  !  "  and, 
like  the  Ancient  Mariner,  Mrs.  Rentwell  had  her 
will.  Regarding  Georgiana  with  a  look  of  mild 
rebuke,  she  proceeded  with  her  papers. 

But  at  length  Mr.  Allen  could  endure  no  longer 
the  queer  expression  of  his  friend's  face.  He  made 
a  mighty  effort,  and  broke  in  upon  his  mother's  stiff 
and  formal  style  of  reading,  as  she  paused  to  turn  a 
leaf. 

"  I  think  perhaps  it  would  be  as  well  to  postpone 
the  conclusion  of  the  documents  till  another  time, 
—  would  n't  it  ?  "  he  asked,  with  some  pertubation. 

"  On  a  subject  of  so  much  importance,  I  am  sur- 
prised to  hear  you  speak  with  such  indifference," 
coldly  and  cuttingly  observed  the  widow. 

"  But  I  am  afraid  the  gentlemen  are  not  much- 
interested,"  said  Sarah  Jane,  coming  to  her  hus- 
band's rescue. 


MARRYING    A    FAMILY.  73 

Mrs.  Rentwell  looked  up,  with  a  very  strong  ex- 
pression of  inquiry. 

"  0,  I  'm  very  much  amused !  "  exclaimed  Mr. 
Leslie,  turning  on  the  stool.  "  Are  not  you, 
Charles  ?  " 

"  Why,  rather  so,"  replied  Mr.  Price,  pinching 
Jonathan's  arm. 

Mr.  Allen  was  roasting;  perhaps  Charles  re- 
garded him  as  a  goose,  and  wished  to  ascertain  if 
he  was  nearly  done. 

"  At  all  events,"  said  Jonathan,  grown  firm 
through  desperation,  "  I  am  neither  interested  nor 
amused ;  but  — "  checking  himself,  conscious  of 
having  spoken  too  hastily  —  "I  am  a  sort  of 
heathen,  I  know." 

Mrs.  Rentwell  gave  him  a  grim  look,  in  which 
she  meant  to  express  a  great  deal  of  severe  and 
concentrated  pity,  and  proceeded  to  read  the  papers. 
During  the  process,  Mr.  Price  made  Jonathan's 
arm  black  and  blue. 

"  I  will  not  go  any  further  into  the  details-  of 
our  labors,"  said  the  old  lady,  at  length,  to  the 
great  relief  of  her  auditors.  "  You  see  what  we 
have  had  to  go  through.  We  have  been  consider- 
ably persecuted,  and  no  end  of  ridicule  has  been 
heaped  upon  us.  But  we  intend  to  persevere,  if 
the  means  can  be  obtained." 
7 


74  MARRYING   A   FAMILY. 

"  I  don't  exactly  see  what  the  object  of  all  this 
is,"  quietly  observed  Mr.  Price. 

"  Our  aim  is  indicated  by  our  name.  We  are 
endeavoring  to  form  the  nucleus  of  a  harmonious 
circle,  which  shall  widen  and  expand  until  it  com- 
prehends all  classes  of  society.  We  shall  fuse  all 
religions  into  one  —  the  true  religion." 

"  I  see,"  said  Mr.  Price,  gravely.  "  You  aim  to 
make  the  whole  world  feel  and  believe  just  as  you 
feel  and  believe.  A  stupendous  plan  !  And,  as  for 
harmony,  there  is  no  principle  I  love  better  and 
would  do  more  to  promote.  Are  not  those  your 
sentiments,  Jonathan,  eh  ?  "  with  a  terrific  pinch. 
"  I  go  in  for  universal  harmony,  and  one  religion. 
I  subscribe  twenty-five  cents  —  cash." 

Mr.  Leslie  gave  the  same;  and  although  Mrs. 
Kentwell  had  strong  suspicions  that  the  young  men 
were  making  sport  of  the  cause,  she  smiled  serenely 
and  pocketed  the  money. 

Thereupon,  Mr.  Leslie  struck  up  the  lively  and 
simple  air  of  "I'd  le  a  butterfly;"  Mr.  Price 
and  Eliza  began  to  sing,  and  Georgiana  began  to 
dance. 

Meanwhile  Laura's  countenance  wore  an  injured 
look,  and  she  conversed  aside  with  her  mother ;  but 
Sarah  Jane  and  her  husband,  although  rendered 
very  unhappy  by  what  had  occurred,  joined  the 
company,  with  feeble  efforts  to  be  gay. 


MARIIYIXG   A   FAMILY.  75 

After  the  young  men  were  gone,  the  widow  took 
occasion  to  say  she  thought  them  rather  insolent, 
but  that  she  could  not  blame  them,  since  they  had 
been  encouraged  to  be  so  by  Mr.  Allen.  Jonathan 
compressed  his  lips,  and,  smothering  considerable 
heat  in  the  region  of  his  heart,  made  no  reply  ;  but 
the  remark  led  to  a  general  discussion  of  the  char- 
acters of  Mr.  Leslie  and  Mr.  Price.  Both  suffered 
extensively  by  the  free  speech  of  Mrs.  Rentwell  and 
her  sarcastic  daughters.  Mr.  Price  especially  was 
the  subject  of  a  dreadfully  severe  criticism,  by  Miss 
Laura,  given  as  an  offset  to  Georgiana's  praises, 
who  declared  that  he  was  delightful,  and  that  he 
had  completely  captivated  her  heart. 

Jonathan  and  Sarah  Jane  withdrew  to  their 
chamber,  where  the  latter  had  a  good  crying  spell 
over  the  unpleasant  occurrences  of  the  evening.  It 
took  all  her  husband's  good-nature  to  soothe  her ; 
so  that  he  forgot  his  own  mortifications,  for  the  times 
in  his  sympathy  for  her  sufferings. 

The  next  morning,  however,  he  thought  the 
matter  over,  and  resolved  that  henceforth  he  would 
be  master  in  his  own  house.  He  began  on  the  new 
system  at  the  breakfast-table.  There  was  no  coffee. 
Mrs.  Rentwell's  family  having  always  been  accus- 
tomed to  tea,  and  nobody  except  himself  caring  for 
any  other  drink,  no  other  drink  was  prepared, 


7(5  MARRYING   A   FAMILY. 

although  he  had  several  -times  hinted  strongly  on 
the  subject. 

"  I  must  have  my  coffee,"  he  said,  firmly.  "  Tea 
with  breakfast  seems  to  me  as  much  out  of  place 
as " 

"  As  white  gloves  at  a  funeral,"  added  Georgiana. 

"  Exactly,"  rejoined  Mr.  Allen,  cheated  of  his 
dignity  by  the  sally.  "  You  know  I  don't  drink 
tea,  mother." 

"  I  hardly  thought  you  would  wish  to  be  alone 
with  your  coffee,"  replied  the  widow.  "  If  you 
care  so  much  for  it,  of  course  you  must  have  it." 

Jonathan  did  not  like  the  tone  with  which  she 
spoke,  but,  seeing  the  color  come  in  Sarah's  face,  he 
held  his  peace.  From  that  time  he  had  coffee,  —  that 
too,  of  a  notable  quality.  It  was  like  Chinese  music, 
which  is  celebrated  for  being  the  worst  in  the  world. 
Mrs.  Kentwell  must  have  been  very  ingenious  to  be 
able  to  concoct  anything  so  bad.  The  result  was 
that  in  the  course  of  a  week  he  decided  to  try  driuk- 
ing  tea. 

Mr.  Allen  would  not  have  given  up  so  easily,  had 
it  not  been  for  the  peculiar  circumstances  of  the 
case.  Sarah  Jane  had  succeeded  in  convincing  him 
that  not  one  of  the  family  knew  how  to  make  coffee ; 
although  he  distinctly  remembered  drinking  some 
very  delectable  cups  of  that  beverage  at  Mrs.  Ilent- 
well's  house,  when  he  used  to  go  there  courting. 


MARRYING   A    FAMILY.  77 

Strange  as  it  seemed  that  the  old  lady  should  at 
that  time  have  been  so  lucky  in  her  attempts  to 
make  his  favorite  drink  to  suit  him,  and  that  such 
manifest  disaster  should  follow  all  her  subsequent 
efforts  in  that  line,  he  did  not  like  to  distress  his 
young  wife  with  a  full  expression  of  his  views  on 
the  subject. 

He  thought  of  employing  regular  help  in  the 
kitchen,  in  order  to  effect  his  purpose ;  but  his  in- 
come was  small,  and  his  family  rather  large,  and  to 
engage  a  cook  expressly  to  make  his  coffee  did  not 
seem  to  be  advisable.  Accordingly  Mrs.  Ilentwell 
triumphed,  and  tea  was  thenceforward  the  order  of 
the  morning. 

Jonathan  detested  everything  that  had  the  ap- 
pearance of  meanness ;  else  he  would  have  attempted 
to  reform  certain  other  abuses,  which  involved  an 
alarming  consumption  of  funds.  He  had  never  an- 
ticipated that  he  would  have  the  whole  family  to 
support.  He  could  not  afford  such  an  expensive 
luxury  ;  and  Mrs.  Ilentwell,  who  knew  his  circum- 
stances, had,  in  encouraging  him  to  take  the  house, 
distinctly  stated  that  she  and  the  girls  could  manage 
to  make  his  household  expenditures  less  than  they 
would  be  if  he  and  Sarah  lived  alone.  The  widow 
had  a  little  property,  and  the  girls  had  been  taught 
to  do  something  to  support  themselves.  But,  some- 
how, everything  came  out  of  Jonathan's  pocket; 


78  MAKRYISO   A   FAMILY. 

nobody  contributed  to  the  general  funds,  except 
himself.  As  much  money  as  the  girls  earned  they 
laid  out  in  dress,  and  private  comforts ;  and  Mrs. 
Rentwell  thought  she  did  her  share  in  the  capacity 
of  housekeeper. 

Even  this  Mr.  Allen  \vould  have  endured  with- 
out murmuring,  as  long  as  his  business  warranted 
him  in  permitting  the  abuse,  had  he  been  able  to 
purchase  peace  by  submission.  But  Mrs.  Hent- 
well's  endeavors  to  promote  public  harmony  resulted 
in  private  discords.  She  seemed  to  have  entered 
into  a  league  with  her  unmarried  daughters  against 
the  welfare  of  Mr.  Allen.  Sarah  Jane,  who  stood 
on  neutral  ground,  in  a  most  unhappy  and  perplex- 
ing position,  they  spared  no  pains  or  stratagems  .to 
bring  within  the  influence  of  their  designs.  All 
day,  when  her  husband  was  about  his  business,  they 
filled  her  ear  with  slanders  against  his  character; 
so  that,  when  he  came  home  at  night,  instead  of  en- 
tering a  cheerful  home,  and  taking  a  fond  and  happy 
wife  to  his  arm?,  he  found  her  eyes  red  and  swollen 
with  weeping,  and  her  heart  all  irritated  and  in- 
flamed from  the  rough  treatment  it  had  received. 

Once  a  fortnight  Jonathan  used  to  attend  the 
evening  meetings  of  some  secret  society,  of  which 
he  was  a  member.  On  one  occasion,  coming  home 
late,  he  found  Sarah  Jane  decidedly  "  out  of  sorts," 
as  she  afterwards  confessed.  When  he  spoke  to 


MARRYING  A  FAMILY.  79 

her  she  only  pouted,  and  looked  disagreeably 
sulky. 

"  Come,  now,"  said  he,  sitting  down  by  her  side, 
and  speaking  to  her  in  a  kind  tone ;  "  I  shall  not 
let  you  go  till  you  tell  me  your  trouble.  What  is 
the  matter  ? " 

"  Nothing,"  murmured  Sarah,  bursting  into 
tears. 

"  It  is  absurd  to  say  so,  when  you  cannot  contain 
your  grief.  Have  I  done  anything  to  hurt  your 
feelings  ? " 

Sarah  sobbed,  but  made  no  answer. 

"  Do,  dear  Sarah,  tell  me  if  Jam  to  blame;  for 
you  know  how  readily  I  would  remedy  any  fault —  " 

"  No  —  you  are  not  to  —  to  blame !  "  sobbed  the 
young  wife  ;  "  only  I  —  I  thought  you  did  n't  care 
for  me  any  more  !  " 

Jonathan  kissed  her  tenderly,  and  begged  to 
know  the  reasons  why  she  indulged  so  unjust  an 
opinion. 

"  I  thought  you  would  not  stay  away  from  me 
so  late,  if  you  were  not  tired  of  me,"  she  articulated, 
after  making  several  ineffectual  efforts  to  speak. 

Jonathan  could  hardly  refrain  from  scolding  her 
for  being  so  silly. 

"  You  know  I  told  you,  before  I  went  out,  that 
I  would  rather  not  go;  but  you  told  me  I  had 
better.  Don't  you  remember  it  ? " 


80  MARRYING   A   FAMILY. 

"  Yes ;  but  you  stayed  so  late  !  " 

"  I  told  you  I  should,  if  I  went." 

"  But,"  murmured  Sarah,  "  I  did  not  want  to 
ask  you  not  to  go ;  it  would  have  seemed  selfish." 

"  It  is  needless  to  apologize  or  explain.  Ques- 
tion your  heart,  Sarah,  and  you  will  learn  how 
unreasonable  your  suspicions  are.  But  you  are  not 
responsible  for  them.  They  have  been  put  into  your 
weak  little  head,"  he  added  playfully,  "  by  the 
family.  Tell  me  truly,  —  is  it  not  so  ?  " 

He  did  not  cease  to  urge  her  until  she  confessed 
all.  Her  mother  had  been  warning  her  of  the 
danger  of  losing  his  affections,  if  he  fell  into  the 
habit  of  spending  his  evenings  away  from  her.  The 
poor  child  had  actually  feared  that  he  was  already 
beginning  to  seek  such  society  as  would  tend  to 
dissipate  his  love. 

They  had  no  difficulty  then  in  making  up  their 
little  quarrel ;  Jonathan  reassured  her,  and  she  was 
very  sorry  for  having  been  so  silly.  By  a  promise 
he  had  made  her,  in  drawing  out  the  confession,  he 
was  bound  not  to  speak  of  the  affair  to  her  mother ; 
and  his  indignation,  like  a  worm,  was  left  to  eat 
into  his  heart. 

This  was  unfortunate;  for  Mrs.  Rentwell  con- 
tinued, with  impunity,  influencing  Sarah  to  enter- 
tain unjust  suspicions  of  him,  and  imagine  causes  of 
complaint.  She  put  a  thousand  unhappy  thoughts 


MARRYING   A   FAMILY.  81 

into  her  head  about  his  neglect,  his  selfishness,  his 
brutality.  Desires  the  young  wife  had  otherwise 
never  dreamed  of  were  awakened  by  her  mother. 

Jonathan  did  not  quite  understand  it;  but  he 
•was  too  tender  of  his  foolish  little  wife  to  inquire 
very  narrowly  into  the  origin  of  all  her  wants. 
Everything  she  asked  for  she  was  pretty  sure  to 
have,  without  much  fuss,  until  a  certain  memora- 
ble occasion. 

She  was  one  evening  feeling  very  unhappy  about 
a  splendid  dress  which  had  been  recently  pre- 
sented to  a  young  lady,  —  who  was  married  about 
the  time  Jonathan  became  the  head  of  the  family,  — 
by  her  tender  husband.  Mr.  Allen  had  given  her 
no  such  token  of  appreciation ;  and  she  was  deeply 
grieved  about  it.  Without  stopping  to  inquire  how 
much  Mrs.  Rentwell  had  to  do  with  breathing  the 
sentiments  of  envy  and  discontent  into  her  mind, 
he  hastened  to  present  her  with  a  pattern  far  more 
beautiful  and  costly  than  the  one  which  had  occa- 
sioned the  unhappiness. 

It  fitted  elegantly  when  madw  up,  and  Sarah  was 
very  grateful.  Jonathan  was  no  less  pleased  with 
it  himself,  until  he  saw  Eliza  make  her  appearance 
in  it  one  Sabbath  morning. 

Mr.  Allen  understood  then  why  Sarah  de- 
clined to  go  to  church.  Eliza  wished  to  wear  her 
new  dress.  Had  this  been  the  first  occasion  of  the 


82  MARRYING   A   FAMILY. 

kind,  he  would  have  held  his  peace ;  but  for  the 
past  few  weeks  the  sisters  had  appeared  to  wear 
only  Sarah's  dresses  continually. 

"Is  this  right?"  he  asked  of  his  young  wife, 
earnestly. 

"  I  did  n't  know  it  was  anything  very  wrong," 
replied  Sarah,  in  a  petulant  tone. 

"  Don't  speak  in  that  way,"  said  Jonathan ; 
"  I  've  no  idea  of  scolding  you.  But  it  seems  to 
me  that  your  sisters  should  be  satisfied  with  living 
upon  us  generally,  and  wearing  your  ordinary 
dresses  as  if  they  were  their  own,  without  taking 
away  from  you  my  last  gift." 

"  I  never  thought  you  would  be  so  particular 
with  my  sisters,"  murmured  Sarah,  beginning  to 
cry. 

"  Particular !  "  echoed  Mr.  Allen,  impatiently. 
"  Don't  they  run  over  me  like  mice  ?  Have  n't  I 
paid  out  three  times  as  much  money  for  them  as 
I  have  for  you  or  me,  since  they  have  lived  with 
us?" 

"  I  would  n't  have  believed  you  would  begrudge 
it " 

"  Begrudge  it !  begrudge  it !  "  Jonathan  was 
beginning  to  quiver,  and  speak  fast  with  excitement. 
"  Have  n't  I  suffered  martyrdom  with  fortitude  ? 
Have  n't  I  thrust  my  hand  into  the  flames,  and  told 


MARRYING   A   FAMILY.  83 

it  to  burn,  smiling  serenely?  For  mercy's  sake, 
tell  me  if  I  am  mean  !  " 

"  I  did  n't  say  you  were  ;  and  I  don't  know  why 
• —  why  —  why  you  should  be  angry  with  me." 

"  I  am  not  angry  ;  but  you  won't  hear  to  reason, 
and  I  lose  my  patience.  Because  I  am  not  willing 
the  girls  should  trample  us  —  or  me  especially  — 
quite  into  the  dust,  you  call  me  particular,  and  say 
I  begrudge  what  I  do  for  them.  It  is  unjust !  " 

"  Eliza  only  wanted  to  —  to  wear  my  new  dress. 
Mr.  Trimmer  is  going  to  walk  to  church  with 
her  —  and  her  dresses  are  not  good  enough." 

"  Not  good  enough  to  wear  to  church  ?  —  or  not 
good  enough  to  bait  a  lover  and  catch  a  husband  ? 
I  don't  understand  you  !  " 

Jonathan  spoke  sarcastically,  and  Surah  burst 
into  a  passion  of  tears. 

"  You  talk  as  though  you  thought  I  had  deceived 
you,  in  order  to  get  you,"  she  sobbed,  in  a  deeply- 
injured  tone. 

Mr.  Allen  compressed  his  lips,  and  strode  across 
the  room. 

"  Why  will  you  misconstrue  what  I  say  ?  "  he 
demanded,  hoarsely.  —  "  But  let  us  drop  the  sub- 
ject. You  have  made  me  forget  that  this  is  the 
Sabbath.  Come,  dear  Sarah,  let  us  have  peace  for 
one  day  in  the  week.  These  trials  and  troubles 
seem  so  trivial,  compared  with  the  worth  of  the 


84  MARRYING   A   FAMILY. 

soul,  that  I  am  ashamed  of  myself.  What  folly  to 
give  way  to  petty  causes  of  irritation,  on  such  a 
glorious  day  as  this  !  " 

It  was  a  beautiful  winter  morning ;  but  the 
bright  sunshine,  and  the  clear,  cold  air,  had  no 
charms  for  Sarah.  She  continued  to  pout,  in  spite 
of  all  her  husband  could  do;  accordingly  he  left 
her,  and  went  to  church  alone.  On  his  return,  his 
soul  elevated  and  purified,  and  all  the  clouds  cleared 
from  his  heart,  he  found  her  pouting  still.  Her 
mother  had  been  with  her,  and  carefully  prepared 
her  to  be  miserable  during  the  remainder  of  the 
day. 

From  that  time,  Jonathan  was  never  so  ready  to 
gratify  all  his  young  wife's  wants.  Living  upon 
him,  the  sisters  had  become  quite  indolent,  and  it 
seemed  always  that  whatever  he  purchased  for 
Sarah  was  rather  for  them  than  for  herself.  He 
needed  some  different  kind  of  encouragement  to  in- 
duce him  to  exhaust  his  income,  and  endanger  his 
business. 

The  reign  of  anarchy  now  commenced  in  earnest. 
The  family  had  no  longer  any  difficulty  in  making 
Sarah  believe  that  she  was  a  neglected,  injured,  and 
cruelly-treated  wife.  There  were  no  more  quiet 
hours  of  happiness  for  her  and  Jonathan,  even  in 
the  solitude  of  their  chamber. 

Mr.  Allen  had  long  since  begun  to  spend  a  por- 


MARRYING   A   FAMILY.  85 

tion  of  his  leisure  time  away  from  home.  When 
spring  opened,  he  scarcely  ever  passed  an  entire 
evening  with  the  family. 

"  You  '11  kill  me  I  I  shall  die  if  you  neglect  me 
so !  "  cried  Sarah,  passionately,  one  night  when  he 
came  home  late. 

"I  neglect  you?  I  kill  you?"  repeated  Jon- 
athan, with  a  bitter  smile. 

"  You  never  stay  at  home  any  more !  "  sobbed 
Sarah. 

"  The  truth  is,  this  don't  seem  like  home  to 
me,  my  dear.  I  don't  live  in  my  own  house ;  I 
dwell  in  your  mother's  kingdom.  Instead  of  home 
influence,  we  have  a  kind  of  despotic  government, 
which  don't  suit  me." 

"  I  never  thought  my  husband  would  hate  my 
mother  !  "  burst  forth  Sarah  Jane. 

"Well,  lay  the  whole  fault  upon  me,  if  you 
please !  "  replied  Jonathan,  in  a  desperate  tone.  "7 
can  bear  it !  J  am  to  blame,  that  we  have  n't  a 
happy  home !  Why,  I  was  driven  out  of  the  par- 
lor long  ago  !  Every  time  Mr.  Trimmer  comes  to 
see  Eliza,  I  am  expected  to  abandon  the  room  to 
promote  courting  conveniences.  Whenever  the 
other  girls  have  beaux,  they  demand  the  same  op- 
portunities. Because  I  was  stupid  enough  not  tc 
suspect  that  Mr.  Saltzer  came  to  see  Laura  the  othei 
8 


CO  MARRYING   A    FAMILY. 

night,  and  sat  in  the  parlor  until  nine  o'clock,  she 
feels  bitter  towards  me  to  this  day." 

"  That  is  no  reason  why  you  should  neglect 
me !  " 

"  But  you  will  not  give  me  peace,  even  here,  in 
our  own  chamber.  You  are  always  complaining 
and  finding  fault  with  me.  Men  will  seek  enter- 
tainment away  from  home,  if  their  home  is  not  made 
happy." 

For  those  cruel  words  Sarah  thought  she  could 
never  forgive  her  husband.  She  cried  about  them 
all  night,  and  told  all  to  her  mother  the  next 
morning. 

"  Let  me  talk  to  him !  "  exclaimed  the  indignant 
Mrs.  Rentwell. 

Jonathan  did  not  give  her  an  opportunity  very 
soon.  He  avoided  the  family  as  long  as  his  con- 
science would  permit  him,  then  resolved  to  make 
one  more  effort  to  render  his  home  endurable. 

Since  the  affair  of  their  subscriptions  to  aid  the 
Sisterhood  of  Harmony,  Mr.  Leslie  and  Charles 
Price  had  refrained  from  visiting  at  Mr.  Allen's 
house ;  but  some  time  in  April  they  agreed  to  come 
again,  to  gratify  their  wretched  friend.  Jonathan 
knew  the  girls  would  be  pleased  to  see  them,  and 
had  no  scruples  about  engaging  them  for  an  even- 
ing. 

Georgiana   expressed    great    delight,   when    he 


MARRYING   A   FAMILY.  87 

brought  home  the  news.  Laura  and  Eliza  had 
beaux,  and  received  the  intelligence  with  less  en- 
thusiasm. 

"  They  will  come  any  evening  this  week,"  said 
Mr.  Allen.  "  Shall  we  say  Tuesday  ?  " 

Laura  looked  dignified,  and  tossed  her  head. 

"Mr.  Saltzer  comes  Tuesday  evenings,"  cried 
Georgiana.  "  Miss  Sourface  thinks  she  must  have 
the  parlor." 

"  Very  well,"  answered  Jonathan,  determined  to 
be  cheerful.  "  Say  Thursday  evening." 

"  Mr.  Trimmer  comes  to  see  Eliza  Thursday 
evenings,"  whispered  Sarah  in  his  ear. 

"  Why,  then,  let  it  be  Wednesday,  since  none 
of  you  attend  the  meetings  of  the  Sisterhood  any 
more." 

"  Mr.  Allen,  I  hope  you  will  refrain  from  speak- 
ing disrespectfully  of  the  Sisterhood,"  observed 
Mrs;  Rentwell.  "  We  have  not  yet  given  over  our 
efforts  to  establish  a  Harmonic  Circle ;  our  friends 
have  failed  us,  to  be  sure ;  but  we  have  an  object 
which  encourages  us  to  persevere.  Henceforth,  a 
few  of  the  most  active  and  influential  members  are 
to  meet  here,  until  we  are  again  able  to  hire  a 
hall." 

"  If  I  may  be  so  bold,"  said  Jonathan,  astounded, 
"  may  I  humbly  inquire  when  the  meetings  of  the 
Sisterhood  are  to  be  held  in  my  own  house  ?  " 


88  MARRYING   A   FAMILY. 

"  On  Wednesday  evenings,"  replied  the  widow, 
"  until  further  notice." 

"  Thank  you ! "  rejoined  Mr.  Allen,  his  eyes 
burning  very  brightly,  and  his  lips  closing  tightly 
upon  his  teeth. 

"  Why  can't  the  gentlemen  come  Friday  night  ?  " 
asked  Sarah. 

11  Because  I  happen  to  be  engaged  on  Friday 
night." 

"  If  you  cared  much  to  have  your  friends  come, 
I  should  think  you  would  give  up  any  ordinary 
engagement,"  remarked  Laura. 

This  was  too  much  for  Jonathan's  patience.  He 
burst  forth  into  a  hasty  expression  of  his  disgust  at 
the  servile  submission  which  was  expected  of  him. 
Sarah  Jane  went  into  hysterics,  and  Mrs.  Rentwell 
came  to  the  rescue. 

"  You  are  an  ungrateful,  unreasonable  man ! " 
she  exclaimed,  indignantly.  "  Was  it  for  this  I 
gave  you  my  dear  child  ?  Is  this  the  way  you  re- 
pay us  for  all  we  have  done  for  you  ?  Is  this  our 
reward  for  trying  to  make  your  home  comfortable  ? 
Are  these  the  thanks " 

Mr.  Allen  stopped  to  hear  no  more,  —  he  seized 
his  hat.  The  house  seemed  to  roar  like  a  Babel 
behind  him,  as  he  turned  down  the  street. 

Jonathan  did  not  return  home  until  evening.    He 


MARRYING   A   FAMILY.  89 

then  went  directly  to  his  room,  but  Sarah  was  not 
there,  and  he  sought  her  in  the  parlor. 

The  widow  and  her  daughters  were  all  present ; 
nobody  looked  up,  on  his  entrance ;  and  Sarah,  who 
was  at  work  on  a  dress  for  Miss  Laura,  while  Miss 
Laura  played  the  piano,  bent  over  her  sewing,  look- 
ing very  red,  and  very  sad. 

"  Sarah,"  said  Mr.  Allen,  mildly,  "  I  want  to 
speak  to  you." 

Sarah  did  not  look  up.  There  was  a  pause, 
during  which  you  could  have  heard  a  pin  drop. 

"  Nobody  will  hinder  your  speaking,"  remarked 
the  widow. 

"  Sarah,  will  you  come  ?  '* 

Jonathan  did  not  appear  to  have  heard  Mrs. 
Kentwell's  remark,  and  he  spoke  kindly,  but  firmly. 

Another  pause.  Sarah  trembling.  Laura  hum- 
ming a  gay  air  at  the  piano.  Georgiana  giggling. 

Jonathan  went  forward,  and  took  his  young  wife's 
hand.  She  arose,  bursting  into  tears,  and  followed 
him. 

"  I  am  ashamed  of  you  !  "  muttered  the  widow. 

Poor  Sarah  sobbed  aloud. 

"  Don't  cry  !  "  said  Jonathan,  soothingly,  when 
they  were  alone.  "  Come  —  cheer  up  !  I  want  you 
to  take  a  walk  with  me." 

"  I  don't  want  to  !  "  replied  Sarah,  in  a  choked 
voice. 


90  MABRYING   A   FAMILY. 

"  Then  go  to  please  me." 

And  her  husband  put  on  her  shawl  and  bonnet 
for  her,  without  more  words. 

They  went  out.  "  I  am  not  fit  to  see  any  one," 
murmured  Sarah,  drawing  back  when  they  had 
reached  the  door. 

Her  face  was  red,  and  her  eyes  swollen. 

"  You  '11  do,"  said  Mr.  Allen,  tenderly  drawing 
her  veil  over  her  face. 

"  But  where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  For  a  little  walk,  which  I  think  will  do  you 
good." 

It  was  a  pleas'ant  night;  and,  after  breathing 
the  air  of  the  streets  a  little  while,  Sarah  became 
reconciled.  Jonathan  had  not  ceased  to  talk  in  the 
kindest  and  tenderest  manner ;  at  length,  by  some 
drollery  of  his,  he  startled  a  laugh  out  of  the  gloom 
of  her  heart. 

"  There  !  "  said  he  ;  "  now  I  think  you  are  pre- 
pared to  make  a  call." 

He  stopped,  and  rang  at  the  door  of  a  handsome 
house. 

"  Who  lives  here  ?  "  timidly  inquired  his  wife. 

Jonathan  laughed,  and  looked  very  mysterious. 
A  domestic  came  to  the  door,  and  he  inquired  for 
Mrs.  Jones. 

"  0,  the  gentleman  who  called  to  look  at  the 


MARRYING   A   FAMILY.  91 

rooms  to-day !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Jones,  recognizing 
Mr.  Allen.  "  Walk  right  up." 

Sarah  turned  very  pale,  and  followed  Jonathan 
with  a  sinking  heart.  Mrs.  Jones  introduced  them 
into  a  handsome  suite  of  unfurnished  rooms  :  when, 
receiving  the  intimation  that  they  would  like  to 
confer  about  them  privately,  she  retired,  and  left 
them  alone  together. 

"  Do  you  understand  what  it  all  means  ?  "  asked 
Jonathan,  drawing  a  smile  upon  Sarah's  sad  mouth 
with  his  thumb  and  finger.  "  Why  don't  you 
laugh  ?  I  thought  it  a  good  joke !  " 

"  It  is  a  very  cruel  one,  I  am  sure !  "  exclaimed 
Sarah. 

"  Call  it  simply  a  serious  one,  my  dear ;  and  let 
us  talk  it  over  candidly.  I  find  it  impossible  to 
live  with  the  family  any  longer.  I  am  coming  here 
to  live ;  that  is,  if  you  will  come  with  me.  Nay, 
don't  speak,  —  you  are  going  to  say  something 
hasty.  I  want  you  to  think  of  this  all  night.  See 
how  you  like  the  rooms ;  consider  calmly  what  a 
miserable  life  we  have  been  leading;  and  reflect 
how  happy  we  might  be  together,  if  we  were  to  live 
alone,  in  love  and  peace ;  then  do  just  as  you 
choose,  only  do  not  be  influenced  in  the  affair  by 
your  mother  and  sisters.  It  will  make  me  very 
happy,  if  you  will  come  with  me.  If  you  stay  with 
them,  I  shall  go  to  a  hotel." 


92  MARKYING   A   FAMILY. 

Sarah  trembled,  and  cried  all  the  way  home. 
She  did  not  sleep  any  that  night,  but  in  the  morn- 
ing she  was  much  calmer  than  Jonathan  could  have 
expected.  In  the  kindest  manner  he  asked  what 
she  had  concluded  to  do.  Of  course  she  cried  again, 
and  wanted  a  great  deal  of  coaxing,  and  a  great 
deal  of  sympathy,  before  she  would  decide  ;  but  at 
length  she  murmured, 

"  I  will  go  with  you " 

Jonathan  almost  smothered  her  with  kisses. 

"  But,"  she  articulated,  disengaging  her  mouth, 
"  don't  let  our  folks  know  anything  about  it  until  I 
am  gone.  They  would  tear  me  to  pieces  before 
they  would  let  me  go  !  " 

"  I  '11  arrange  that !  "  cried  the  delighted  hus- 
band. 

They  talked  over  their  plans ;  and,  in  accordance 
with  them,  Sarah  hastily  packed  up  her  private 
property  before  going  down  to  breakfast.  At  the 
table  she  had  not,  in  reality,  much  appetite ;  and, 
arising  before  the  rest  of  the  family,  she  returned  to 
her  room,  put  on  her  things,  and  left  the  house. 
Jonathan  still  remained  at  table. 

"  I  shall  not  be  home  at  dinner,"  said  he,  care- 
lessly. 

"  Very  well,"  replied  Mrs.  Rentwcll. 

"  Nor  at  supper." 

"  Very  well." 


MARRYING  A  FAMILY.  93 

"  In  fact,  you  need  not  look  for  me  to-night  at 
all." 

"  Just  as  you  please." 

"  Nor  to-morrow,"  said  Jonathan,  with  a  slight 
tremor  in  his  voice. 

The  widow  was  startled,  but  made  no  answer. 

"  And  if,"  he  continued,  "  anybody  should  come 
for  the  piano  in  the  course  of  the  day,  let  it  go." 

"  The  piano  !  "  almost  shrieked  Miss  Laura. 

General  consternation  prevailed ;  in  the  midst  of 
which  Mr.  Allen  preserved  his  calmness  admirably. 

"  And  the  furniture  in  my  chamber,  and  the 
parlor-furniture,  which  I  believe  belongs  to  me," 
he  continued,  "  I  shall  send  for  during  the  day. 
All  the  rest  I  leave  to  you,  with  my  best  wishes." 

"  What  do'  you  mean,  Mr.  Allen  ?  "  inquired 
Mrs.  Rentwell,  in  a  suppressed  voice,  and  with  a 
very  white  face. 

"  I  mean  that  I  have  concluded  to  move  my 
lodgings." 

The  widow  tried  to  spread  a  piece  of  bread  and 
butter  with  an  appearance  of  indifference  ;  but  her 
fingers  trembled,  and  the  muscles  of  her  hand  were 
evidently  very  weak. 

"What  will  the  world  say,  to  see  you  desert  your 
wife  in  this  way  ?  "  she  asked,  with  an  effort  to 
speak  calmly. 


94  MARRYING   A   FAMILY. 

• 

"  0,  Sarah  is  going  with  me,"  coolly  replied  Mr. 
Allen. 

"Going  with  you?  Impossible!"  exclaimed  the 
\vidow,  rising  abruptly  from  the  table,  and  rushing 
to  Sarah's  room. 

Jonathan  did  not  await  her  return,  but  hastened 
from  the  house,  leaving  the  girls  thunderstruck  and 
speechless 

It  is  needless  to  describe  Mrs.  Rentwell's  excite- 
ment, on  discovering  that  Sarah  was  already  gone. 
The  house  was  a  scene  of  confusion  and  dismay 
during  the  remainder  of  the  morning.  At  ten 
o'clock  a  wagon  came  for  the  furniture.  It  was  not 
until  then  that  Mrs.  Rentwell  was  able  to  learn 
what  direction  her  daughter  had  probably  taken. 
She  inquired  of  the  men  where  the  furniture  was 
going,  and  hurried,  with  anger  in  her  heart,  to  Mrs. 
Jones'  house. 

But  Sarah  had  not  yet  arrived,  and  she  was  not 
expected  until  evening.  The  widow's  purpose  was 
foiled ;  Jonathan  had  sent  his  wife  on  a  visit  some- 
where, with  perfect  success ;  and  Mrs.  Rentwell 
returned  home  in  a  state  of  great  agitation. 

In  the  evening,  Mr.  Allen  arrived  at  their  board 
ing-house  with  his  wife.  The  carpets  were  down, 
the  piano  and  the  seraphine  were  there,  with  the 
furniture,  and  comfort  smiled  upon  them  as  they 
entered  their  rooms. 


MARRYING   A   FAMILY.  95 

"  Do  you  think  you  can  be  happy  here  ?  "  asked 
Jonathan,  fondly. 

"0  yes,  —  but  I  have  been  so  naughty  !  How 
can  you  forgive  me  ?  " 

Sarah  wept  sweet  tears  in  her  husband's  arms. 
That  was  the  happiest  evening  they  had  passed  to- 
gether in  many,  many  weeks. 

"  We  will  have  Price  here,  and  Leslie,  Wednes- 
day evening,  and  invite  the  girls,"  said  Jonathan. 
"  How  would  you  like  that  ?  " 

"  You  are  so  kind  and  forgiving !  "  murmured 
Sarah.  "  I  should  be  pleased;  but  they  don't  de- 
serve it,  more  than  I  do." 

"Never  mind;  they  will  be  better  in  future. 
And  your  mother,  —  she  can  come  and  see  you,  — 
on  one  condition.  If  ever  she  throws  out  a  sus- 
picion, or  a  hint,  injurious  to  me,  don't  listen  to  her. 
She  will  be  careful  not  to  do  anything  of  the  kind 
in  my  presence,  I  think.  Only  remember  the  past, 
dear  Sarah." 

The  next  day  was  Sunday ;  and  Jonathan  and 
Sarah  enjoyed  it  as  the  Sabbath  should  be  enjoyed. 
On  Wednesday  they  sent  invitations  to  the  Misses 
Pienhvell,  to  call  in  the  evening.  "Mr.  Price  and 
Mr.  Leslie  were  to  be  present." 

Only  Georgiana  came.  Sarah  and  her  husband 
treated  her  very  affectionately,  and  made  her 
heartily  ashamed  of  her  conduct  towards  them 


96  MARRYING   A   FAMILY. 

while  under  the  same  roof.  Like  Sarah,  Georg- 
iana  -was  naturally  a  good  girl,  and  would  have 
appeared  so,  aside  from  her  mother's  influence. 
She  had  long  tales  to  tell  of  the  old  lady's  mor- 
tification at  the  divorce,  as  Jonathan  called  his 
separation  from  the  family  he  had  married,  which 
were  cut  short  by  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Leslie  and 
Mr.  Price. 

There  was  great  rejoicing  over  the  change  which 
Jonathan  had  wrought  in  his  domestic  affairs. 
Charles  said  he  had  abdicated  his  turban,  fled  from, 
the  harem,  and  become  a  Christian ;  and  Mr.  Les- 
lie inquired  concerning  the  prosperity  of  the  Sister- 
hood of  Harmony,  with  direct  reference  to  the 
money  he  had  given  to  the  cause. 

The  evening  was  a  happy  one  for  all.  Charles 
went  home  with  Georgiana;  who  was  so  well 
pleased,  and  told  so  glowing  a  story  of  the  recep- 
tion she  had  met  with,  that  her  sisters  took  an 
early  occasion  to  visit  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Allen.  Mrs. 
Rentwell  was  not  long  in  following  their  example, 
and  Sarah  was  now  perfectly  happy ;  for,  if  ever 
another  attempt  was  made  to  estrange  her  from  her 
husband,  she  was  able  to  resist  it,  and  to  maintain 
his  honor  and  her  rights. 

To  this  day,  Jonathan  Allen  is  quite  happy  in, 
his  domestic  relations.     He  does  not  much  repent 
his  early  experience,  for  he  appreciates  love  and 


MARRYING   A   FAMILY.  97 

peace  the  better  from  the  contrast ;  but  he  is  ear- 
nest in  his  advice  to  all  friends  who  contemplate 
matrimony  that  they  should  beware  of —  MARRYING 


MARY    DARWELL'S    GRIEF. 


MR.  DARWELI,  was  a  kind-hearted  husband  and 
affectionate  father ;  but  there  were  times  when  he 
appeared  passionate,  cruel,  relentless, — when  love  for 
his  family  was  forgotten,  and  the  distress  of  his 
wife  and  children  had  no  power  to  soften  his  heart. 

These  times  never  occurred  except  when  he  had 
been  for  many  days  absent  from  home,  and  returned 
from  a  scene  of  dissipation  abroad,  morose,  irritable, 
and  ill-humored. 

Mr.  Darwell  lived  on  a  neat  little  farm,  situated 
about  twenty-five  miles  from  New  York.  He  was 
much  esteemed  by  his  neighbors,  and  had  the  repu- 
tation of  being  an  upright,  generous  man  ;  although, 
three  or  four  times  a  year,  he  was  accustomed  to 
meet  his  old  companions  in  New  York,  and  pass  in 
revelling  several  weeks,  spending  his  money  lavishly, 
and  indulging  in  ruinous  excesses. .  At  the  end  of 
that  time,  exhausted  with  his  dissipation,  remorse* 


MARY  DARWELL'S  GRIEF.  99 

ful  and  sullen,  he  would  go  home  to  his  family; 
never  recovering  his  wonted  cheerfulness  until  the 
pleasant  society  of  his  wife  and  children,  together 
with  habits  of  industry,  had  worn  away  the  effects 
of  long  indulgence. 

On  one  occasion,  in  midsummer,  he  had  been 
absent  from  home  two  weeks,  and  his  family  were 
anxiously  expecting  his  return ;  when,  in  the  fore- 
noon of  a  pleasant  day,  little  Mary,  his  youngest 
child,  espied  him  riding  rapidly  up  the  road. 

As  he  dismounted  from  his  horse,  Mary  ran  out 
to  meet  him,  and  welcome  him  with  a  kiss ;  but  the 
morose  father  pushed  her  rudely  from  him,  and, 
with  contracted  brows,  strode  past  her  towards  the 
•house. 

"  Where  's  Spot  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,  father,"  replied  little  Mary,  run- 
ning towards  the  kennel.  "  He  is  near  the  house, 
somewhere." 

Mr.  Darwell  called  the  dog,  in  a  loud  and  impa- 
tient voice ;  but  Spot  was  old,  and,  having  grown 
deaf  in  his  service,  did  not  hear. 

"  That  accursed  dog  !  "  muttered  Mr.  Darwell, 
angrily ;  "  he  is  never  to  be  found  when  he  is 
wanted.  Where  is  William  ? " 

"  In  the  field  at  work,  I  suppose,"  replied  the 
girl,  timidly.  "  What  is  the  matter  ?  " 


100  MARY   DARWEU/S   GRIEF. 

"  The  cow  is  in  the  clover !  "  exclaimed  Mr. 
Darwell. 

"  I  will  go  and  drive  her  out,  papa ! "  cried 
Mary.  "But  here  is  Spot." 

A  large,  shaggy,  good-natured  dog,  with  dim  eyes 
and  blunted  teeth,  came  trotting  up  to  his  master, 
wagging  his  tail  for  joy.  Spot  was  an  ancient  ser- 
vant in  the  family ;  and  little  Mary  loved  the  dog 
with  all  that  fondness  which  children  are.  sometimes 
capable  of  bestowing  on  favorite  animals. 

"  Come  along,  Spot !  "  muttered  Mr.  Darwell, 
hurrying  away. 

Spot  ran  on  before,  and  little  Mary  followed 
timidly,  at  a  distance.  The  clover-field  was  not 
far  from  the  house,  and  soon  Mary  saw  the  cow 
feeding  on  the  delicious  herb. 

Then  the  sensitive  girl  remembered  how  Spot 
tore  the  cattle's  noses  and  ears  when  set  upon  them, 
and  thought  she  would  rather  drive  the  cow  out  of 
the  field  than  see  the  faithful  dog  perform  his  duty 
so  savagely. 

"Papa!  papa!"  she  cried,  "don't  set  Spot  on, 
please  !  Let  me  drive  the  cow  out." 

Mr.  Darwell  turned  angrily  on  his  child,  and 
ordered  her  to  return  to  the  house.  Mary  went 
back  sorrowfully ;  and,  a  moment  after,  she  heard 
Spot's  savage,  angry  bark.  Looking  around,  she 
saw  him  jumoing  at  the  cow's  throat  while  the 


MARY  DARWELL'S  GRIEF.  101 

persecuted  animal  plunged  madly,  in  terror,  to 
avoid  the  dog's  jaws. 

It  took  but  a  minute  for  Spot  to  bring  the  cow 
to  a  broken  fence,  where  she  had  entered  the  field ; 
but  here,  instead  of  jumping  out,  bewildered  with 
fear  and  pain,  she  ran  off  in  another  direction.  The 
dog,  unable  to  hold  her  on  account  of  the  decayed 
state  of  his  teeth,  chased  her  around  the  field, 
making  her  so  wild  that  it  was  in  vain  for  Mr. 
Darwell  to  try  to  drive  her  out. 

"  Curse  such  a  dog  as  that !  "  muttered  the  angry 
man.  "  Here,  Spot,  here  !  " 

But  the  dog  was  deaf,  and  did  not  hear.  All 
Mr.  Darwell's  shouts  were  unavailing.  Spot  still 
worried  the  cow  around  the  field,  jumping  at  her 
throat,  and  tearing  her  ears,  under  the  impression, 
doubtless,  that  he  was  doing  his  master  good  ser- 
vice. 

Exaspenfted  -at  the  dog's  deafness,  Mr.  Darwell 
ran  to  the  house,  entered  abruptly,  and,  without 
speaking  to  his  wife,  whom  he  had  not  seen  for  so 
long,  took  down  his  rifle,  that  hung  over  the  great 
fireplace  in  the  kitchen. 

Little  Mary  clasped  her  hands,  and  began  to  cry ; 
for  her  father's  angry  manner  filled  her  timid  heart 
with  fear.  Mrs.  Darwell,  who  knew  her  husband's 
sullen  mood,  looked  on  in  tearful  silence. 

Conscious  that  something  dreadful  was  about  to 


102  MARY  DARWELL'S  GRIEF. 

happen,  Mary  followed  her  father  in  the  direction 
of  the  field.  At  a  distance,  trembling  with  childish 
apprehension,  she  saw  him  raise  the  gun,  examine 
the  percussion-cap,  and  take  deliberate  aim  at  Spot, 
who  was  still  worrying  the  cow. 

"  0,  don't  shoot,  father  !  don't  shoot !  "  shrieked 
the  poor  girl.  "  Don't  kill  Spot !  " 

And,  half  distracted  in  view  of  the  death  which 
threatened  her  old  favorite,  —  the  faithful  servant 
of  the  house,  —  she  ran  forward.  Mr.  Darwell, 
governed  entirely  by  his  angry  impulse,  heeded  her 
not.  She  saw  the  flash  of  fire  burst  from  the 
muzzle  of  the  rifle ;  a  sharp  report  followed ;  and, 
with  a  low,  dismal,  piteous  cry,  old  Spot  staggered 
away,  and  sank  upon  the  ground. 

"  Here !  take  this  to  the  house  !  "  shouted  Mr. 
Darwell,  lowering  his  rifle,  and  throwing  it  down. 
"  Quick ! " 

Mary  could  not  but  obey.  "With  jf  heart  bleed- 
ing with  anguish,  she  ran  to  take  up  the  rifle.  As 
she  did  so,  her  eye  fell  upon  the  wounded  dog,  as 
he  lay  panting  and  bleeding  on  the  turf. 

"  Quick  !  "  said  her  father,  again. 

Mary  ran  away,  and,  rushing  into  the  house, 
dropped  the  gun. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  asked  her  mother,  with 
anxiety  and  alarm. 


MARY  DARWELL'S  GRIEF.  103 

"0,  poor  Spot !  "  sobbed  Mary.  "  Papa  has 
Bhot  poor  Spot !  " 

"  Dear  child ! "  said  Mrs.  Darwell,  tenderly. 
"  Don't  cry  !  " 

But  little  Mary  was  disconsolate ;  and  her  mother 
was  herself  so  much  affected  that  she  could  not 
refrain  from  tears. 

After  sending  his  child  to  the  house,  Mr.  Dar- 
well drove  out  the  cow  without  difficulty,  as  he 
could  easily  have  done  at  first,  had  not  his  foolish 
anger  prompted  him  to  require  the  services  of  poor 
old  Spot. 

Mr.  Darwell  was  conscious  of  having  acted  in  a 
brutal  manner.  This  remorseful  feeling,  added  to 
the  pangs  he  felt  before,  in  consequence  of  his  dark 
recollections  touching  the  time  and  money  he  had 
spent  in  ruinous,  unsatisfactory  dissipations,  made 
him  almost  fiendish.  His  horse,  which  stopped  to 
clip  a  spear  of  grass  as  he  was  leading  him  to  the 
barn,  he  whipped  unmercifully  ;  and  an  inoffensive 
calf,  that  happened  to  be  in  his  way,  received  an 
angry  blow. 

Poor  old  faithful  Spot,  shot  whilst  doing  what  he 
deemed  dutiful  service,  was,  all  this  time,  left  bleed- 
ing on  the  turf;  and,  as  soon  as  Mr.  Darwell  had 
disappeared,  little  Mary,  trembling  and  in  tears,  ran 
out  to  see  if  the  dog  was  dead. 

Reader,  did  you  ever,  when  a  child,  behold  a 


104  MARY  BAR  WELL'S  GRIEF. 

dumb  animal  that  you  loved  dearly  dying  a  death 
of  anguish  ?  If  so,  you  can  imagine  Mary's  distress. 
Her  soft,  affectionate  heart  bled  with  unavailing  sor- 
row, as  she  saw  poor  Spot  moaning  and  gasping  on 
the  ground. 

His  rnouth,  his  feet,  and  the  weeds  and  grass  all 
around  him,  were  covered  with  his  blood.  With 
heart-rending  moans  he  writhed  upon  the  turf,  stain- 
ing it,  whichsoever  way  he  turned.  The  bullet  had 
passed  through  his  mouth  obliquely,  tearing  his 
tongue  and  breaking  the  bones  of  both  his  jaws. 

Perceiving  that  Spot  was  not  dead,  and  gathering 
hope  from  what  she  saw,  Mary  ran  to  her  mother 
with  the  news. 

"  0,  I  hope  he  won't  die ! ''  she  exclaimed,  fer- 
vently. "  But,  there,  he  suffers  so  much  !  Perhaps 
it  would  be  better  if  he  was  dead." 

She  went  back  to  her  old  companion,  the  play- 
mate of  her  infancy  and  childhood.  Spot  had  crept 
near  the  fence,  leaving  a  crimson  trail  upon  the  grass. 
He  was  still  moaning  piteously ;  and  his  mouth  was 
covered  with  a  bloody  foam.  Fearing  to  approach 
him  too  nearly,  Mary  watched  him  at  a  distance, 
her  sweet  face  wet  with  tears  of  sorrow,  and  her 
little  hands  clasped  in  agony. 

"  He  is  not  dead  yet,"  said  she,  returning  to  her 
mother.  "Do  come  and  look  at  him,  mamma1 
Perhaps  you  can  do  something  for  him." 


MARY  DARWELL'S  GRIEF.  105 

To  satisfy  the  child,  Mrs.  Darwell  followed  Mary 
to  the  spot  where  the  wounded  animal  lay. 

"  0,  look  at  him,  mamma  !  "  cried  the  broken- 
hearted child.  "  Is  it  not  too  bad  that  he  should 
be  shot  ?  0,  it  makes  me  sick  to  see  his  mouth 
bleed  so ! " 

"  Poor  Spot !  "  sighed  Mrs.  Darwell. 

"  Mamma,  will  he  die  ?  "  asked  Mary. 

"  I  am  afraid  he  will,"  replied  her  mother.  "  His 
jaw  is  broken." 

Lifting  her  streaming  eyos  to  her  mother's  face, 
Mary  artlessly  inquired  if  the  doctor  could  not 
mend  it.  Being  answered  in  the  negative,  her  sobs 
burst  forth  anew. 

"I  would  not  cry  about  it,"  said  Mrs.  Darwell, 
wiping  a  tear  from  her  own  eyes.  "  Spot  could  not 
have  lived  much  longer.  He  is  older  than  you  are, 
Mary ;  and  he  has  been  almost  blind  and  deaf  for  a 
long  time." 

And  she  led  the  grieved  child  back  to  the  house. 

All  day  little  Mary  occupied  herself  in  watching 
poor  Spot,  and  reporting  his  condition  to  her  mother. 
Sometimes  he  would  appear  better,  and  she  would 
run  joyfully  to  the  house  with  the  news.  More 
frequently,  however,  Spot  would  lie  down  gasping 
on  the  ground,  and  seem  to  be  dying;  and  she 
would  hasten  to  carry  the  mournful  intelligence  to 
her  sympathizing  parent. 


106  MARY  DAKWELL'S  GRIEF. 

At  first,  the  poor  child,  gazing  distractedly  at  the 
animal's  sufferings,  feared  to  approach  him  ;  but,  as 
her  sight  grew  familiar  with  the  blood  and  foam 
which  covered  his  mouth,  and  her  ear  with  his  low 
whine  of  distress,  she  ventured  near ;  and  when  at 
last  he  turned  towards  her  his  suffering  eyes,  as  if 
in  prayer  for  relief,  she  patted  him  on  the  head. 
She  started  back  with  a  cry,  for  her  hand  was 
stained  with  blood. 

As  Mary  went  to  wash  her  hands,  she  thought 
Spot  would  be  glad  if  she  would  also  wash  the  blood 
away  from  his  mouth.  Accordingly  she  carried  a 
basin  of  water  to  the  place  where  the  animal  lay, 
and  poured  it  over  his  wounds. 

Mr.  Darwell,  meanwhile,  was  at  work  repairing 
such  things  about  the  farm  as  had  suffered  from 
neglect  during  his  absence.  To  his  son,  whom  he 
found  industriously  employed,  he  spoke  unkindly, 
uttering  unmerited  reproofs ;  and  with  his  faithful 
serving-man,  Tom  Marks,  he  found  fault  without 
reason. 

When  the  men  came  home  to  dinner,  Mary,  with 
many  tears,  related  to  William  the  catastrophe  of 
poor  Spot.  William  was  much  grieved,  and,  through 
his  closed  teeth,  muttered  something  about  his  fath- 
er's cruelty,  which  Mary  could  not  understand. 

William  took  counsel  with  Tom  Marks,  and  it 
was  decided  that  they  ought  to  kill  the  dog,  to  put 


MARY  DARWELL'S  GRIEF.  107 

him  out  of  his  misery.  But  Mary,  who  could  not 
bear  the  thought  of  Spot's  death,  entreated  them  ta 
spare  him. 

"  Don't  kill  him  !  "  she  pleaded.  "  He  '11  get 
well,  I  hope,  after  all." 

Mr.  Darwell  being  still  morose  and  ill-humored, 
nobody  dared  to  speak  to  him  of  the  condition  of 
the  dog ;  and  thus  the  poor  animal  was  left  to  suffer 
until  night. 

•Just  before  sundown,  Mr.  Darwell,  coming  home 
from  the  field,  passed  the  place  where  Mary  still  sat 
watching  Spot. 

"  She  is  fussing  with  that  dead  dog  !  "  he  mut- 
tered, angrily. 

Approaching  to  order  her  to  the  house,  Mr.  Dar- 
well heard  a  very  faint  moan.  He  paused,  and  saw 
old  Spot  lying  on  the  ground  gasping  for  breath, 
and  Mary  gazing  at  him  with  a  sorrowful  face.  A 
pang  shot  through  his  heart ;  for  he  remembered 
the  fidelity  and  age  of  that  old  dog,  and  the  attach- 
ment which  had  always  existed  between  him  and 
Mary. 

The  grieving  child  heard  her  father's  foot-steps, 
and,  with  a  timid,  entreating  face,  she  looked  up  and 
said, 

"  Spot  is  not  dead  yet,  father  !  " 

He  could  not .  speak.      Turning  quickly  to  hide 


108  MARY  DARWELL'S  GRIEF. 

his  emotion,  he  hurried  to  the  house,  leaving  Mary 
with  her  old  companion. 

"  What  a  fiend  I  have  been  !  "  he  muttered,  con- 
tracting his  brows  with  hatred  of  himself. 

He  thought  of  the  joy  it  had  given  him,  in  years 
gone  by,  to  see  the  noble  dog,  strong,  faithful  and 
affectionate,  watch  by  the  cradle  of  the  infant  Mary ; 
and  to  see  him  at  a  later  day  hold  her  little  frock  in 
his  teeth,  to  steady  her  timid  foot-steps,  —  endure 
her  childish  tyranny,  licking  the  baby-hand  that 
sometimes  smote  him  angrily,  and  perform  all  her 
commands  like  an  obedient,  loving  slave.  He  re- 
membered how  often  he  had  laughed  to  see  that 
dear  child  climb  upon  the  animal's  back,  and,  cling- 
ing to  his  collar,  compel  him  to  carry  her  about ; 
and  the  tender  care  the  dumb  brute  always  had 
of  her  was  fresh  in  his  mind.  No  wonder,  then, 
that  the  father's  heart  was  filled  with  the  bitterest 
remorse  and  anguish. 

He  entered  the  house,  and  in  a  kind  manner 
greeted  his  wife,  half  apologizing  for  his  harshness. 

"  I  have  been  very  unhappy,"  said  he.  "  I  have 
not  felt  well.  Forgive  me." 

A  moment  after,  he  spoke  of  Mary  and  the  dog ; 
and  Mrs.  Darwell  told  him  the  whole  story  of  the 
girl's  sorrow  and  distress,  her  watching  and  anxiety, 
her  hope  and  fear. 

Shortly  after,  while  they  were  conversing,  Mary 


MARY  DARWELL'S  GRIEF.  109 

came  in  with  a  sad  brow,  and,  without  a  word,  sat 
quietly  down  in  her  little  chair  in  the  corner. 

"  Come  here,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Darwell,  kindly. 

Mury  rose,  with  a  countenance  full  of  grief,  and 
approached  her  father. 

"  My  child,"  said  he,  with  emotion,  "  what  is  the 
matter  ? " 

Her  little  bosom  began  to  heave  with  sobs,  and 
big  tears,  starting  from  her  red,  swollen  eyes,  rolled 
down  her  cheeks.  But  she  could  not  speak. 

"  My  dear,"  pursued  her  father,  in  a  trembling 
voice,  "tell  me  what  ails  you." 

"  Spot  is  dead  !  " 

The  words  seemed  to  burst  from  her  heart,  and 
instantly  she  was  convulsed  with  weeping. 

"  Don't  cry !  "  said  Mr.  Darwell,  in  a  choked 
voice.  "  I  will  buy  you  another  dog." 

"  I  don't  want  another  dog  !  "  sobbed  Mary. 

"  Why  not,  dear  ?  " 

"  I  could  not  love  it  as  I  loved  Spot ;  and  when 
I  fed  it,  or  played  with  it,  it  would  make  me  think 
of  Spot,  and " 

She  could  say  no  more  ;  —  and  her  father  pressed 
her  to  his  heart,  which  was  full  of  love,  remorse  and 
pity. 

On  the  following  day,  Mary  saw  old  Spot  buried 
under  the  tree  not  far  from  where  he  had  died.  For 
many  months  she  remembered  him  with  sorrow,  and 
10 


110  MARY  DAKWELL'S  GRIEF. 

watched  the  sunshine,  the  rain  and  the  winter's  snow, 
•which  fell  upon  the  turf  where  the  faithful  old  ser- 
vant of  her  childhood  lay  buried. 

But  other  associations  caused  Mary  to  forget  her 
girlish  sorrow ;  and  among  the  tenderest  of  these 
was  the  unfailing  kindness  of  her  father,  who  was 
never  harsh  or  cruel  towards  her,  or  any  one,  or  any- 
thing again.  So  Mary  grew  up  a  happy,  bright- 
eyed,  affectionate  girl,  dearly  beloved  by  her  parents 
and  friends,  and  loving  every  one.  But  she  never 
knew,  until  years  after  the  death  of  her  dog,  that 
this  event  was  the  occasion  of  the  happy  change  in 
her  father,  who  was  never  absent  fiom  his  familj 
any  more. 


MUTTON  IN  BRAMBLETOWN. 


IN  those  regions  where  wolves  are  numerous,  it 
usually  follows  that  mutton  is  proportionately  scarce. 
In  Brambletown,  before  the  legislature  of  the  state 
passed  the  present  law  relating  to  bounties  on  the 
slaughter  of  these  disagreeable  animals,  it  frequently 
happened  that  nothing  in  the  shape  of  sheep  or  lamb 
could  be  obtained  for  love  or  money.  All  attempts 
to  produce  sufficient  mutton  to  supply  the  demand 
for  it  were  complete  failures  ;  and  it  was  always 
with  the  greatest  difficulty  that  even  a  single  lamb, 
designed  for  Christmas  or  Thanksgiving,  could  be 
raised  and  fattened  in  farmers'  kitchens.  The  care 
taken  to  keep  silly  sheep  within  sight  of  human 
habitations  during  the  day,  and  in  pens  at  night, 
was  of  little  consequence.  The  wolves  were  sure 
to  come  in  for  their  share,  which  was  usually  so 
exorbitant  that  there  was  nothing  left  for  the 
farmers. 


112  MUTTON    IN    BRAMBLETOWN. 

Mr.  Bellamy,  an  enterprising  agriculturist,  and 
one  of  the  most  influential  men  in  Brambletown, 
made  repeated  attempts  to  raise  sheep,  well  satisfied 
that  moderate  profits  in  wool  and  mutton  would 
richly  recompense  him  for  devoting  a  portion  of  his 
land  to  pasturage.  But  he  had  been  no  more  suc- 
cessful than  his  neighbors ;  and  at  last  his  entire 
flock  became  reduced  to  a  solitary  sheep.  All  the 
rest  had  been  so  unfortunate  as  to  excite  the  desire 
of  rapacious  wolves ;  and,  instead  of  arriving  at  the 
dignity  of  chops  and  roast,  they  found  wretched 
graves  in  the  maws  of  their  ferocious  enemies. 

The  cosset  remained.  Luckily  for  him,  he  had 
been  brought  up  "  by  hand,"  and  never  trusted  out 
of  the  narrow  door-yard,  within  the  limits  of  which 
no  wolf,  however  hungry,  had  ventured  to  in- 
trude by  daylight ;  and  every  night  he  had  been 
shut  up  in  Deacon  Bellamy's  wood-house,  where 
nothing  could  disturb  him.  Knowing  no  fear,  and 
having,  I  suppose,  only  vague  dreams  of  the  wolf, 
the  peaceful  lamb  grew  fat ;  and,  even  before  it  had 
reached  maturity,  its  plump  proportions  and  beauti- 
ful fleece  delighted  the  eye  of  the  farmer. 

Now,  like  many  children,  this  stupid  cosset  was 
often  sadly  inclined  to  indulge  in  prohibited  pleas- 
ures which  every  sensible  person  knows  to  be  hurt- 
ful. Having  long  since  learned  to  jump,  and  having 
at  a  later  day  enjoyed  a  taste  of  grass  beyond  the 


MUTTON   IN   BRAMBLETOWN.  113 

limits  of  hia  narrow  pasture,  it  required  continual 
care  on  the  part  of  the  Bellamys  to  keep  him  at 
home. 

"  He 's  more  trouble  than  he  'a  worth  ! "  exclaimed 
the  deacon,  his  patience  being  at  length  exhausted. 
"  I  would  like  to  keep  you  till  Thanksgiving,"  pat- 
ting the  lamb  on  his  head,  "  but  I  see  you  will  con- 
tinue to  jump,  until  some  day  you  will  jump  into 
the  jaws  of  a  wolf,  and  that  will  be  the  last  of  you. 
You  are  your  worst  enemy,  poor  fellow  !  for  you 
compel  me  to  butcher  you." 

The  young  cosset  had  also  contracted  a  bad  habit 
of  butting,  which  had  grown  with  his  growth,  and 
strengthened  with  his  strength,  until  the  younger 
Bellamys  could  not  come  into  the  yard  without 
being  knocked  down  by  the  ungrateful  wretch ;  and 
even  the  deacon  and  his  oldest  son  frequently,  on 
getting  over  the  fence,  received  unwelcome  assist- 
ance from  behind. 

Thus  the  cosset  persisted  in  his  wrong  actions, 
until  he  compelled  his  patron  to  cut  off  the  thread 
of  his  existence  (with  a  butcher-knife)  just  under 
his  chin  ;  a  sad  fate,  which  should  serve  as  a  warn- 
ing to  all  bad  boys  who  disobey  their  parents  with- 
out considering  that  the  latter  know  a  great  deal 
better  what  is  good  for  them  than  they  do  them- 
selves. 

The  deacon  chose  a  cool  afternoon  in  August  to 
10* 


114  MUTTON   IN   BRAMBLETOWN. 

perform  the  last  act  in  the  tragedy  of  the  pet  lamb. 
I  pass  over  in  silence  the  butchering,  as  I  wish  to 
avoid  lacerating  the  feelings  of  the  reader  with 
the  sad  details  of  the  scene,  which  only  dire  neces- 
sity and  a  love  of  mutton  could  have  induced  the 
deacon  to  enact.  After  the  cosset  had  ceased 
struggling  and  gasping,  he  was  laid  out  on  a  board 
raised  about  three  feet  from  the  ground,  and  then  a 
group  of  Bellamys  was  gathered  about  him. 

The  younger  children,  with  water  in  their  mouths, 
if  not  in  their  ej'es,  held  the  legs  of  the  cosset,  while 
the  deacon  and  his  eldest  son  skinned  them  scientifi- 
cally. These  last  duties  to  an  old  friend,  I  am  com- 
pelled  to  admit,  were  cheerfully  performed  by  all 
parties ;  not  that  they  loved  the  cosset  less,  but 
that  they  loved  mutton  more.  When  the  deacon 
had  finished  skinning  the  hind  legs,  the  carcass  was 
suspended  in  the  usual  fashion  upon  a  gambrel,  and 
the  rest  of  the  skinning  accomplished.  Other  neces- 
sary matters  having  been  attended  to,  the  deacon 
proceeded  to  divide  the  flesh.  There  was  nothing 
like  narrow  selfishness  about  Deacon  Bellamy.  He 
had  said  to  his  wife, 

"  I  think  we  can  get  along  with  a  hind-quarter 
of  the  lamb  ;  and,  as  a  taste  of  mutton  will  be  very 
acceptable  to  our  neighbors,  suppose  we  divide  the 
rest  among  them  as  equally  as  we  can  ? " 

"  That  is  just  like  you,  dear,"  replied  the  good- 


AOTTON   IN   BRAMBLETOWN.  115 

hearted  woman.  "  Do  as  you  like ;  but  allow  me  to 
suggest  that  a  whole  quarter  should  be  sent  to  the 
minister." 

"To  Mr.  Nolley, —  to  be  sure,  a  good  idea!" 
said  the  deacon. 

Accordingly,  the  excellent  man  sent  the  two  fore- 
quarters,  in  pieces  as  nearly  equal  as  possible,  to 
half  a  dozen  of  his  nearest  neighbors,  reserving  for 
the  clergyman  a  portion  quite  as  large  as  his  own. 
It  was  dark,  however,  before  the  boys  had  accom- 
plished their  first  half-dozen  errands  ;  and,  the  way 
to  the  clergyman's  house  lying  through  the  woods, 
it  was  thought  best  not  to  send  him  his  mutton  until 
morning.  The  deacon  feared  lest  the  wolves  might 
smell  the  meat,  and,  enraged  that  so  small  a  portion 
should  have  fallen  to  their  share,  make  up  for  the 
deficiency  by  eating  the  boys.  The  quarter  in  ques- 
tion was  accordingly  wrapped  up  in  the  skin,  and 
deposited  in  the  wood-house,  on  a  board  erected 
directly  over  the  bed  so  lately  occupied  by  the  living 
cosset. 

On  the  following  morning  the  whole  family  break- 
fasted on  mutton  ;  and  the  boys,  Charley  and  George, 
having  finally  had  satisfaction  of  the  lamb  which  had 
butted  them  so  often  with  impunity,  prepared  to 
carry  the  minister's  portion. 

A  large  covered  basket  was  brought  for  the  pur- 
pose, and  Mrs.  Bellamy  went  to  the  wood -house 


116  MUTTON    IN    BRAMBLETOWX. 

herself  to  see  the  mutton  nicely  packed,  in  order 
that  it  might  look  as  inviting  as  possible  in  the  eyes 
of  the  clergyman's  family.  Then,  what  was  the 
consternation  of  the  kind-hearted  lady,  on  discover- 
ing that  the  quarter  of  mutton  had  disappeared  ! 

"  George  !  "  she  said,  "  call  your  father  at  once. 
Tell  him  the  lamb  is  gone  !  " 

And  while  George  ran  out  in  great  haste,  she  cast 
her  eyes  round  the  wood-house,  vainly  hoping  to  see 
the  meat  in  some  other  place,  to  which  her  husband 
might  have  removed  it.  The  outer  door  had  not 
been  locked  the  previous  night,  it  is  true,  and  thieves 
might  have  entered ;  yet  she  could  not  conceive  of 
such  utter  depravity  as  must  exist  in  the  heart  of 
a  man  who  could  be  guilty  of  stealing  anything  so 
sacred  as  a  leg  of  mutton. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  Can't  find  the  mutton  ?  " 
cried  the  deacon,  entering  abruptly.  "  Why,  good- 
ness !  —  true  enough  !  It  has  been  stolen  !  " 

And  for  once  the  deacon's  benevolent  countenance 
was  darkened  with  a  frown  of  displeasure. 

"  Well,  there  is  no  use  in  lamenting  misfortunes," 
he  said,  after  a  pause,  during  which  he  had  ascer*- 
tained  for  a  certainty  that  the  mutton  was  gone. 
"  May  the  sinner  repent  before  the  ill-gotten  mutton 
digests  !  All  we  can  do  is  to  send  an  apology  to  Mr. 
Nolley." 

"  I  was  just  thinking,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Bellamy, 


MUTTON   IN   BRAMBLETOWN.  117 

"  that  the  best  apology  we  can  send  him  is  one  of 
our  nice  new  cheeses,  which  I  know  Mrs.  Nolley 
will  be  glad  enough  to  have  in  her  family.  There 
is  one  that  will  just  go  into  the  basket  in  place  of 
the  mutton,  and  I  don't  know  but  it  will  be  quite 
as  acceptable." 

"  I  believe  you  are  right,"  replied  her  husband. 
"  Do  you  put  up  the  cheese,  while  I  write  a  word  to 
Mr.  Nolley." 

Mrs.  Bellamy  required  no  further  encouragement 
to  go  at  once  to  the  dairy,  and  select  the  finest  cheese 
on  her  shelves,  as  a  present  to  the  minister.  By  the 
time  she  had  laid  it  neatly  in  a  cloth  under  the  cover 
of  the  basket,  the  deacon  had  penned  the  following 
note: 

"  KEV.  MB.  NOLLEY.  —  Dear  Sir  :  Please  accept  the 
accompanying  trifle,  as  a  token  of  friendship  and  esteem. 
I  had  designed  to  send  you  a  present  which  might  have 
been  more  acceptable,  but  circumstances  which  I  may 
explain  at  some  future  time  have  prevented  me  from 
doing  as  I  would  like.  Yours,  truly, 

"JosiAH  BELLAMY." 

The  two  youthful  Bellamys,  Charley  and  George 
were  now  sent  through  the  woods  with  the  cheese  in 
the  basket,  and  the  note  in  Charley's  coat-pocket 
They  were  gone  much  longer  than  was  necessary  to 
do  their  errand,  for  some  tempting  blackberries. 


118  MUTTON   IN   BKAMBLETOWN 

growing  on  the  borders  of  the  woodland,  would  not 
let  them  pass  without  tasting  them.  However,  they 
at  length  returned  with  their  trousers  wet  with  dew, 
and  their  lips  and  teeth  stained  with  berries. 

"Well,"  said  the  deacon,  who  happened  to  be  at 
the  house,  "  you  have  really  got  back.  I  was  begin- 
ning to  think  the  wolves  had  caught  you." 

"  Mr.  Nolley  kept  us  waiting " 

"  Kept  you  waiting !  "Well,  what  did  Mr.  Nolley 
keep  you  waiting  for  ?  " 

"  For  this  letter,  which  he  was  writing,"  said 
Charley,  promptly. 

The  deacon  took  the  note,  and  read  as  follows : 

"  DEAR  BROTHER  BELLAMY  :  I  don't  know  what  could 
have  been  more  acceptable  than  the  nice,  generous  piece 
of  mutton  you  have  been  so  kind  as  to  send  me.  In  return, 
please  accept  my  sincere  thanks,  and  the  trifling  present 
you  will  find  in  the  basket.  Yours, 

"ALONZO  NOLLEY." 

The  deacon  rubbed  his  eyes,  and  scratched  his 
head. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Bellamy. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Nolley  thanks  us  for  '  the  nice,  gen- 
erous piece  of  mutton  we  sent  him  !  '  What  does 
he  mean  ?  There  is  some  Difference  between  mutton 
and  cheese." 

"  0,  it 's  a  slip  of  the  pen,"  replied  the  charitable 


MUTTON   IN   BRAMBLETOWN.  119 

Mrs.  Bellamy.  "  He  was  thinking  of  the  mutton, 
• —  for  everybody  knows  you  killed  yesterday,  —  and 
he  wrote  nice  mutton,  instead  of  nice  cheese." 

"  It  must  be  so,"  rejoined  the  deacon.  "  But  I 
must  say  I  was  foolish  enough  to  fear  that  —  0, 
that  was  silly  !  " 

"  What  ? " 

"  I  thought  Nolley  might  have  taken  offence 
because  we  did  not  send  him  any  mutton,  and 
have  alluded  to  it  ironically,  in  order  to  hurt  our 
feelings." 

"0,  fie  !  Mr.  Nolley  is  not  such  a  man  as  that. 
But  here,  what  have  we  got  in  the  basket  ? " 

There  was  something  done  up  in  a  cloth. 

"  The  basket  is  heavy  enough,"  said  the  deacon. 

"  0,  goodness  !  —  no  wonder  !  "  gasped  Mrs.  Bel- 
lamy, sinking  upon  a  chair. 

She  had  just  raised  the  cloth,  and  dropped  it  again, 
as  if  she  had  seen  a  serpent.  The  basket  contained 
a  large  flat  stone  ! 

The  deacon  became  pale  with  consternation.  He 
glanced  first  at  the  stone,  then  at  his  astonished  wife, 
and  finally  turned  sternly  to  the  boys. 

"  Charles ! " 

"Sir." 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?  "  demanded  the  deacon, 
severely. 


120  MUTTOX   IN   BRAMBLETOWN. 

"I  —  I  don't  know.  We  gave  the  basket  to  — 
to  Mr.  Nolley  himself,  with  your  note '' 

"And*  added  an  impertinent  message  of  your 
own ! " 

"  No ;  we  never  said  anything,  but,  '  Here  's 
something  father  sent  you,'  —  did  we,  George  ?" 

"  No,  we  did  n't ;  and  Mr.  Nolley  carried  the 
basket  into  another  room,  after  asking  us  to  sit 
down  and  wait.  Then,  after  a  while,  he  came  to 
us  again  with  the  basket  and  this  letter " 

"  Tell  me,  is  this  the  solemn  truth  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Charles,  with  a  look  of  candor. 

The  deacon  sent  the  boys  out  of  doors,  and  con- 
sulted with  his  wife. 

"  I  was  never  so  confounded  in  my  life,"  he  mut- 
tered, glancing  again  at  the  minister's  note.  "  I 
did  think  Mr.  Nolley  was  a  good  man,  and  a  Chris- 
tian." 

"  I  am  thunderstruck ! "  replied  his  wife.  "  What 
did  you  write  in  your  note  ?  " 

"  That  I  wished  him  to  accept  the  trifle  sent  him, 
in  place  of  a  present  which  might  have  been  more 
acceptable,  that  I  had  designed  for  him ;  and  he 
writes  back,  « I  don't  know  what  could  have  been 
more  acceptable  than  the  nice,  generous  piece  of 
mutton.'  0,  what  a  disposition  the  man  must  have, 
to  take  offence  because  I  sent  pieces  of  mutton  to 
the  neighbors,  and  none  to  him  !  And  my  apology 


MUTTON   IN   BRAMBLETOWN.  121 

must  have  been  sufficient,  I  am  sure.    Then  to  send 
back  a  stone  !     I  never  can  forgive  him  !  " 

"Now,  deacon,  this  is  hardly  Christian-like  in 
you,"  remonstrated  the  good  woman.  "  It  is  very 
aggravating,  to  be  sure ;  but  remember  that  the 
best  of  men  have  their  weaknesses.  Instead  of  cher- 
ishing enmity  against  your  brother  in  the  church, 
go  to  him " 

"  Go  to  him !  " 

"  Certainly,  and " 

"  After  what  has  happened  ?  After  he  has  in- 
Bulted  us  ?  " 

"  Go  and  ask  an  explanation.  It  is  your  duty. 
Be  a  Christian  !  " 

The  deacon  pressed  his  wife's  hand.  '  A  gleam 
of  sunshine  cleared  away  the  cloud  from  his  brow. 

"  You  always  counsel  well,  —  like  a  Christian  !  " 
he  exclaimed,  warmly.  "  I  wish  I  was  as  good,  as 
meek,  as  forgiving,  as  you  are !  But  I  feel  better 
now.  I  will  go  directly  to  Mr.  Nolley,  and  I  won't 
be  angry,  either." 

"  Bless  your  kind  heart,  go  !  And,  I  '11  tell  you 
what,  deacon,  it  is  always  best  to  return  good  for 
evil.  You  must  not  go  with  an  empty  basket." 

"  0,  after  sending  him  a  cheese,  and  receiving  a 
stone  in  return " 

"  Good  for  evil,  deacon  !     There  is  a  little  of  the 
mutton  left ;  we  can  do  without  it  well  enough." 
11 


122  MUTTON   IN    BRAMRLETOWN. 

"  I  understand  you !  "  exclaimed  the  deacon. 
"  I  will  carry  Mr.  Nolley  what  there  is  left,  and 
tell  him  all ;  then,  if  his  heart  does  not  melt,  I  shall 
give  him  up  as  a  hardened  wretch." 

Glorying  in  the  kindness  he  had  intended  to  do 
the  minister,  Mr.  Bellamy  took  the  basket  on  his 
arm,  and  went  himself  through  the  woods,  to  Mr. 
Nolley's  house. 

The  deacon's  face  was  all  sunshine,  as  he  knocked 
at  the  door.  The  minister's  little  girl  appeared. 

"  Is  your  father  at  home,  my  dear  ?  "  he  asked. 

"He  just  went  to  ride  with  mamma  and  the 
baby,"  she  replied.  "  Won't  you  come  in  and  wait  ? 
He  will  be  back  soon." 

Being  quite  anxious  to  see  the  clergyman,  the 
deacon  entered ;  and,  the  girl  having  run  down  to 
the  road  to  see  if  her  parents  were  coming,  he 
thought  he  would  carry  the  basket  into  the  pantry 
himself. 

If  the  deacon  had  already  been  considerably  as- 
tonished that  morning,  his  amazement  was  now 
increased  a  thousand-fold.  For  a  moment  he  could 
not  believe  the  evidence  of  his  senses ;  but  what  he 
saw  was  no  illusion.  Upon  one  of  the  shelves, 
before  his  very  eyes,  lay  the  quarter  of  mutton 
which  had  been  stolen  from  his  wood-house ! 

The  deacon  staggered,  breathed  heavily,  and  in 
great  trepidation  examined  the  meat  more  closely. 


MUTTON   IN   BRAMBLETOWN.  123 

He  recognized  it  by  a  peculiar  cut  which  he  remem- 
bered making  on  the  joint. 

"May  the  Lord  forgive  the  sin,  as  I  forgive 
it ! "  he  sighed.  "  But,  since  the  hypocrite  has 
taken  by  stealth  that  which  should  have  been  given 
him  freely,  I  cannot  leave  him  to  enjoy  the  plunder. 
Besides,  he  must  know  that  his  crime  is  discov- 
ered." 

And  the  deacon  immediately  placed  the  quarter 
in  his  basket,  with  the  second  present  he  had  de- 
signed the  minister.  As  he  passed  out  of  the  door, 
he  said  to  the  little  girl, 

"  I  will  not  wait  for  your  father.  Tell  him  that 
I  have  taken  the  mutton  which  I  found  in  his 
pantry." 

The  child  stared  at  the  deacon,  and  was  dumb. 
The  moment  his  back  was  turned,  however,  she 
burst  into  tears. 

The  deacon's  heart  was  touched.    . 

"  At  all  events,  the  child  is  blameless,"  thought 
he;  "she  desires  a  taste  of  mutton,  and  she  shall 
have  it." 

Returning  immediately  to  the  pantry,  he  took 
from  his  basket  the  small  piece  of  meat,  and  placed 
it  on  the  same  shelf  where  he  had  found  the  stolen 
quarter.  Then  patting  the  child's  head,  and  telling 
her  to  be  a  good  girl,  and  not  cry,  he  returned  home 
with  a  heavy  heart. 


124  MUTTON   IN   BKAMBLETOWff. 

"Well,  well,  well!  "  he  sighed,  sinking  upon  a 
chair ;  "I  am  tired  of  the  world  now !  I  have 
lived  long  enough,  —  nay,  a  day  too  iong/' 

And,  to  his  wife's  look  of  anxiety  and  alarm,  he 
replied  by  lifting  the  cover  of  the  basket,  and  re- 
vealing the  mutton.  It  is  impossible  to  describe 
her  distress.  She  even  shed  tears,  poor  woman, 
over  the  minister's  sin. 

"  I  never  knew  before  that  humanity  was  so 
weak,"  said  the  deacon,  sighing.  "  Whom  shall  we 
trust  now  ?  If  a  man  who  appears  so  good  and 
kind  can  fall  into  such  disgraceful  sin,  who  is 
safe  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  to  speak  of  it,  it  is  so  awful,"  mur- 
mured the  excellent  Mrs.  B. ;  "  never  did  anything 
shock  me  like  this !  But,  for  charity's  sake,  keep 
this  terrible  secret  from  the  world.  Think  of  the 
scandal  which  must  fall  upon  the  church,  if  the 
thing  is  known  beyond  our  own  bosoms.  Leave  the 
minister  alone  with  his  conscience,  and  let  us  pray 
that  he  may  repent !  " 

The  deacon  thought  this  advice  the  best  in  the 
world,  and  resolved  to  follow  it.  The  secret  was 
accordingly  kept,  and  the  children  were  charged  to 
say  nothing  about  the  theft  of  the  mutton. 

"  I  have  found  it,"  said  the  deacon. 

"  Where  ? "  they  asked. 


MUTTON   IN   BKAMBLETOWN.  125 

"  No  matter,  —  in  a  place  where  nobody  would 
have  thought  of  looking  for  it,"  was  the  reply. 

The  meat  was  accordingly  eaten  by  the  deacon's 
family ;  but,  in  justice  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bellamy,  I 
must  state  that  not  a  morsel  of  it  was  tasted  by 
them.  They  even  lost  their  appetites  merely  from 
seeing  it  on  the  table. 

The  deacon,  however,  made  up  his  mind  to  one 
thing,  from  which  all  the  representations  of  hia 
wife  could  not  move  him. 

"  I  will  most  assuredly  leave  Mr.  Nolley  alone 
with  his  conscience,"  he  said ;  "  but,  unless  his  con- 
science moves  him  to  repent  of  his  sin,  and  to  con- 
fess it  with  a  contrite  heart,  my  own  conscience  will 
never  allow  me  to  sit  under  his  hypocritical  preach- 
ing again." 

Both  he  and  his  wife  expected  that  the  clergy- 
man would  hasten  to  them  to  beg  their  forgiveness, 
and  confess  his  fault ;  but,  as  -he  did  not,  they 
began  to  look  upon  him  as  a  hardened  sinner ;  and, 
when  the  Sabbath  came,  Mr.  Bellamy,  in  a  solemn 
tone,  told  his  children  that,  as  he  wished  to  converse 
with  them  on  religious  subjects,  they  would  not  go 
to  church. 

Very  much  astonished,  the  family  gathered 
around  him,  and  listened  to  his  teachings,  which 
came  from  a  heart  filled  with  humility,  piety  and 
grief. 

11* 


126  MUTTON   IN   BRAMBLETOWN. 

Such  was  the  surprise  of  everybody,  on  seeing 
the  deacon's  pew  empty  on  the  Sabbath,  that  there 
was  a  general  inquiry  to  know  if  his  family  was 
sick ;  and,  in  the  evening,  several  of  the  brethren 
called  at  his  house.  To  their  anxious  questions 
Deacon  Bellamy  replied,  that  it  was  not  sickness, 
but  other  causes,  which  he  could  not  explain,  that 
had  kept  his  family  from  the  house  of  worship. 

On  the  following  Sabbath  the  deacon's  pew  was 
empty  again  ;  and  now  his  strange  conduct  began  to 
create  severe  remarks.  Once  more  the  church- 
members  went  to  converse  with  him  on  the  subject ; 
but,  as  Mr.  Nolley  did  not  come,  the  deacon  still 
kept  his  secret,  unhappy  as  it  made  him. 

On  the  third  Sabbath,  —  which  was  communion- 
day,  —  the  absence  of  the  deacon's  family  created 
such  a  feeling  in  the  church,  that  the  poor  man  saw 
the  folly  of  pursuing  his  present  course  of  conduct 
any  longer. 

When  told  that  Mr.  Nolley  had  declined  coming 
to  talk  with  him,  for  some  reason  which  he  would 
not  explain,  Mr.  Bellamy's  patience  was  exhausted. 

"  Tell  the  people  that  I  will  be  at  the  church- 
meeting  on  Friday,"  he  said,  in  an  agitated  voice,  to 
Elder  Florson.  "Then  I  will  explain  all,  — pro- 
vided Mr.  Nolley  is  there  !  " 

This  strange  reply  excited  the  interest  of  all  the 
church-members  to  such  a  degree,  that,  when  Friday 


MUTTON  IN   BKAMBLETOWN.  127 

came,  there  was  a  larger  assembly  in  the  vestry 
than  had  ever  been  known  before. 

The  clergyman,  looking  pale  and  solemn,  sat  in 
his  accustomed  place,  and  Deacon  Bellamy  was  like- 
wise present. 

There  was  some  delay  in  the  proceedings,  in  con- 
sequence of  the  presence  of  a  man  named  Wolsey, 
who  had  for  years  rejoiced  in  the  name  of  Wicked 
Wolsey,  which  he  had  gained  by  gross  impiety,  in 
blaspheming  the  Lord's  name,  and  in  hunting  and 
fishing  on  Sabbath  days.  For  som'e  time,  however, 
Wicked  Wolsey  had  been  observed  to  lead  a  differ- 
ent life,  attending  church-service  three  times  each 
Sabbath,  and  prayer-meetings  whenever  they  oc- 
curred during  the  week  ;  and,  after  some  discussion, 
the  church  suffered  him  to  remain  in  the  vestry,  in 
consequence  of  an  earnest  desire  he  expressed  to 
make  a  confession  to,  and  ask  counsel  of,  the  min- 
ister and  his  flock. 

After  some  business  of  small  importance  had  been 
transacted,  Deacon  Bellamy  was  called  upon  for  the 
explanation  he  had  to  make. 

Slowly  and  silently  he  arose ;  and,  after  casting 
one  sorrowful,  appealing  look  at  Mr.  Nolley,  pro- 
ceeded briefly  to  relate  what  had  transpired.  A 
breathless  silence  prevailed ;  and  his  entire  state- 
ment was  heard  with  interest  and  amazement.  The 


128  MUTTON   IX   BRAMBLETOWN. 

audience  was  filled  with  consternation ;  and  every 
eye  turned  to  the  countenance  of  the  minister. 
The   moment   the   deacon   sat   down,  the  latter 


He  was  a  young  man,  with  a  mild  blue  eye,  and 
a  benevolent  expression,  which  had  won  the  hearts 
of  the  entire  congregation.  Moreover,  his  amiable 
manners,  and  his  apparent  zeal  in  the  cause  of  his 
Master,  had  inspired  everybody  with  such  confidence 
in  his  virtue,  that  it  was  expected  the  mere  breath 
of  his  lips  would -blow  away  the  fabric  of  error  which 
had  grown  up  in  Mr.  Bellamy's  mind. 

"  I  hasten,"  he  said,  with  a  sad  smile,  —  and 
every  heart  ceased  to  beat,  —  "I  hasten  to  confess 
a  sin,  for  which  I  must  beg  the  forgiveness  of  my 
brethren  and  sisters." 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  sensation  produced 
by  this  commencement.  More  than  one  counte- 
nance became  suddenly  blanched,  and  more  than  one 
breast  labored  with  a  groan  of  distress. 

"  It  is  the  sin  of  pride,"  the  clergyman  added 
quickly,  to  the  general  relief  of  his  hearers.  "  I 
have  shrunk  from  a  duty  which  has  appeared  to  me 
humiliating ;  but  I  am  now  humbled,  and  hesitate 
no  longer. 

"  I  am  grieved  that  Brother  Bellamy,  —  for,  after 
cis  truly  feeling  and  Christian-like  address,  I  can- 
not refuse  to  call  him  so,  —  I  am  grieved,  I  say, 


MUTTON   IN   BRAMBLETOWN.  129 

that  he  is  apparently  laboring  under  an  incompre- 
hensible error.  I  give  him  the  credit  of  having 
stated  with  candor  that  •which  he  believer  to  be  the 
truth,  but  in  which  I  am  sure  every  one  present 
must  feel  that  he  has  been  strangely  deceived. 

"  All  I  know  of  the  matter,  I  will  briefly  relate. 

"  On  the  morning  to  which  our  brother  has  al- 
luded, I  was  agreeably  surprised,  on  receiving  from 
him  a  quarter  of  mutton." 

"  Mutton  !  "  murmured  the  deacon,  starting  from 
his  seat. 

"  I  cannot,  to  save  my  life,"  pursued  the  clergy- 
man, "  explain  even  to  myself  the  strange  perversity 
of  Brother  Bellamy,  in  calling  that  a  cheese  which 
was  most  assuredly  mutton.  I  took  it  from  the 
basket  myself,  and  wrote  the  note  in  reply,  which 
he  has  read  to  you.  I  wrote  in  a  true  spirit  of 
thankfulness;  and  the  trifle  I  sent  back  with  it, 
the  better  to  express  my  gratitude,  was  a  large 
family  Bible,  which  I  enclosed  in  a  strong  wrapper, 
and  placed  in  the  basket.  What  has  become  of 
this  Bible,  I  cannot  tell ;  for  no  person,  I  suppose, 
can  for  a  moment  believe  that  the  book  can  have 
been  transformed  into  stone,  as  the  cheese  had 
previously  been  changed  to  mutton. 

"  Having  sent  the  boys  back  with  the  basket,  I 
went  to  ride  with  Mrs.  Nolley,  and  was  inexpress- 
ibly mortified,  on  my  return,  to  learn  that  Brother 


130  MUTTOX   IN    BRAMBLETOWX. 

Bellamy  had  been  at  the  house,  and  taken  away  the 
first  piece  of  mutton  he  sent,  leaving  a  much  smaller 
piece  in  its  place.  The  pride  of  which  I  have  been 
guilty  consisted  iu  a  repugnance  I  felt  to  having 
further  communication  with  a  person  who  could  be 
guilty  of  what  appeared  to  me  to  be  a  mean  action." 

The  clergyman  would  have  continued ;  but  Dea- 
con Bellamy,  quivering  with  excitement,  started 
from  his  seat. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  exclaimed,  wiping  the  per- 
spiration from  his  brow,  —  "I  don't  know  which  is 
insane,  —  Mr.  Nolley  or  myself.  One  of  us  is, 
most  assuredly.  I  never  sent  him  any  mutton ; 
and  his  declaration  that  I  did " 

"  I  beg  leave  to  relateiwhat  I  know  about  this 
matter,"  said  a  voice  in  another  part  of  the  room. 

It  was  Wicked  Wolsey,  —  and  in  an  instant 
every  eye  was  fixed  upon  him. 

"  What  have  you  to  say  ?  "  said  Elder  Florson. 

"  Simply  that  I  stole  the  mutton,"  replied  Wicked 
Wolsey,  "  and  that  I  am  the  cause  of  all  this  mis- 
understanding." 

There  was  a  murmur  of  satisfaction  in  the  con- 
gregation ;  a  gleam  of  sunshine  flashed  across  Dea- 
con Bellamy's  features,  and  the  minister  smiled 
calmly. 

"  I  stole  the  mutton,"  repeated  Wicked  Wolsey, 
in  a  humble  tone.  "  Having  heard  that  Deacon 


MUTTON   IN   BRAMBLETOWN.  131 

Bellamy  had  sent  portions  of  the  fat  cosset  to  sev- 
eral of  the  neighbors,  I  \vas  angry  becauae  I  had 
been  neglected.  This  was  very  foolish,  for  I  had 
never  deserved  anything  of  him  except  reproaches 
and  contempt.  But  I  did  not  think  so  then  ;  and, 
determined  to  have  a  share  of  the  mutton,  I  went 
at  night,  and  stole  the  hind-quarter. 

"  But  I  was  not  permitted  to  carry  it  away  in 
peace.  I  had  scarcely  got  to  the  woods,  when, 
hearing  a  noise,  I  looked,  and  saw  directly  before 
me  in  the  dark  thicket  the  glaring  eyes  of  a  wolf! 
I  was  startled;  but,  having  a  hunting-knife  with 
me,  I  did  not  greatly  fear  a  single  attack ;  so  I 
kept  along  on  the  border  of  the  woods,  until  the 
animal  set  up  a  hideous  howl,  which  was  echoed  by 
half-a-dozen  wolves,  that  appeared  to  be  but  a  little 
way  off.  Well  aware  that  I  could  do  nothing  with 
a  whole  pack,  I  hastened  to  climb  a  beech-tree,  car- 
rying the  mutton  with  me  into  the  branches. 

"  I  had  scarcely  reached  a  safe  place,  when  the 
wolves  began  to  gather  around  the  tree,  and  I  felt 
very  uneasy  to  see  their  dark  forms  moving  in  the 
bushes  beneath  me,  and  to  hear  their  howls.  Think- 
ing they  would  go  away  soon,  I  determined  not  to 
give  them  a  taste  of  the  mutton,  which  would  only 
have  made  them  the  more  ferocious ;  yet  1  had 
formed  a  plan  to  throw  them  the  meat,  and  let  them 


132  MUTTON   IN    BRAMBLETOWN. 

devour  it,  in  case  I  heard  any  persons  coming  to 
my  rescue. 

"  But,  to  my  dismay,  the  solves  kept  around  me 
until  daylight.  Just  as  I  was  going  to  throw  them 
the  mutton,  in  despair,  they  glared  at  me  fiercely, 
and,  uttering  a  few  dismal  howls  of  disappointment 
and  rage,  darted  into  the  woods  and  disappeared. 

"  After  waiting  for  them  to  get  into  the  heart  of 
the  forest,  I  came  down  from  the  tree ;  but,  not 
daring  to  carry  home  the  mutton  by  daylight,  I  hid 
it  in  the  bushes.  I  then  went  home ;  and,  having 
explained  to  my  wife  the  cause  of  my  absence,  and 
eaten  a  light  breakfast,  I  returned  to  the  woods  with 
my  rifle ;  not  so  much  to  hunt,  as  to  have  an  ex- 
cuse for  keeping  within  sight  of  the  bushes  where 
the  mutton  was  concealed. 

"  This,  I  should  have  said  before,  was  rolled  up 
in  the  pelt,  as  when  I  found  it  in  the  wood-house ; 
but,  on  examining  it,  I  saw  that  nothing  could  save 
it  from  the  flies,  if  left  in  that  position  during  the 
heat  of  the  day.  I  was  considering  what  I  ought 
to  do,  when,  hearing  the  sound  of  voices,  I  thought 
I  was  discovered.  I  lay  perfectly  still,  however, 
and  in  a  moment  Deacon  Bellamy's  two  youngest 
boys  stopped  in  the  bushes  within  a  few  yards  of 
me,  placed  a  basket  on  the  ground,  and  went  to 
picking  berries.  In  a  little  while  I  could  hear 
their  voices  at  a  distance ;  and,  thinking  I  might 


MUTTON   IN   BRAMBLETOWN.  133 

see  "what  was  in  the  basket  before  they  returned,  I 
crept  cautiously  towards  it,  and  lifted  the  cover. 
Seeing  a  nice  cheese  done  up  in  a  cloth,  I  remem- 
bered that  I  was  fond  of  cheese,  and  thought  to 
steal  it.  I  did  not  know,  however,  how  I  was  to 
prevent  an  immediate  discovery  of  the  theft  by  the 
boys,  until  the  idea  struck  me,  that,  should  I  put 
the  mutton,  which  I  had  already  resolved  to  aban- 
don to  the  wolves,  in  place  of  the  cheese,  the  boys 
might  be  deceived  by  the  weight,  and  never  discover 
their  mistake  until  they  came  to  dispose  of  their 
load ;  by  which  time  I  hoped  to  have  the  cheese 
safely  hidden  in  the  woods. 

"  This  plan  I  carried  into  execution,  remaining 
concealed  until  the  boys  had  taken  away  the  basket, 
without  suspecting  what  I  had  done. 

"  I  afterwards  hid  the  cheese  and  the  sheep's  pelt 
in  another  part  of  the  woods,  and,  taking  a  circuit- 
ous route,  reached  a  position  from  which  I  could 
watch  the  boys  as  they  came  out  of  Mr.  Nolley's 
house. 

"  To  my  surprise,  they  set  down  the  basket  again, 
in  order  to  wander  into  the  bushes  for  berries  ;  and, 
having  a  curiosity  to  see  if  they  had  brought  the 
mutton  back  with  them,  I  approached  unobserved, 
and,  once  more  raising  the  cover  of  the  basket,  dis- 
covered something  done  up  in  a  package.  Con- 
ceiving this  to  be  of  some  value,  I  was  wicked 
12 


134  MUTTON   IN   BRAMBLETOWN. 

enough  to  covet  it ;  and  seeing  a  stone  close  by  that 
I  judged  to  be  about  the  same  weight  as  the  pack- 
age, I  deposited  it  in  the  place  of  the  latter,  which 
I  concealed  in  the  hollow  of  a  stump.  I  then 
hunted  a  little  while  in  the  woods,  and  returned 
home.  But  early  in  the  evening,  before  the  wolves 
came  about,  I  secured  the  cheese,  the  pelt  and  the 
package,  which  I  carried  home. 

"I  now  proceeded  to  gratify  my  curiosity  in 
opening  the  package,  which,  to  my  astonishment  and 
mortification,  I  found  to  contain  a  Bible.  I  turned 
over  the  leaves  with  disgust,  for  I  hated  even  the 
name  of  the  book  ;  but  my  contempt  was  suddenly 
changed  to  alarm  and  remorse,  as  my  eye  fell  upon 
the  passages  in  Exodus  :  '  Thou  shalt  not  steal ;' 
and,  '  Thou  shalt  not  covet  thy  neighlx>r's  house, 
thou  shalt  not  covet  thy  neighbor's  wife,  nor  his 
man-servant,  nor  his  maid-servant,  nor  his  ox,  nor 
his  ass,  nor  anything  that  is  thy  neighbor's.' 

"  It  seemed  to  me  something  more  than  a  mere 
accident,  which  drew  my  eye  to  the  commandments 
I  had  just  been  guilty  of  breaking.  I  felt  that  an 
over-ruling  power  had  taken  this  strange  method  of 
leading  me  to  repentance.  I  began  to  read,  and  all 
night  I  searched  the  pages  of  that  sacred  volume, 
finding  myself  condemned  on  every  point,  and  writh- 
ing in  the  agonies  of  remorse." 

Here  Wicked  Wolsey,  having  closed  his  singular 


MUTTON   IN   BRAMBLETOWN.  135 

narrative,  proceeded  to  .relate  his  religious  experi- 
ence, which  we  will  not  repeat.  Suffice  it  to  say, 
that  reading  the  Bible  led  him  to  church,  and  the 
excellent  sermons  of  Mr.  Nollcy  had  been  the  means 
of  converting  him,  and  of  inducing  him  to  confess 
and  ask  the  prayers  and  forgiveness  of  the  congre- 
gation. 

"  For  my  part,"  said  Deacon  Bellamy,  who  was 
shaking  Mr.  Nolley's  hand,  with  tears  in  his  eyes, 
"  I  forgive  you,  John  Wolsey,  and  pray  for  you. 
And  I  must  take  this  occasion  of  publicly  asking  our 
pastor's  pardon  for  my  unjust  suspicions." 

"  I  can  forgive  you  the  more  freely,  since  I  look 
upon  them  as  the  most  natural  in  the  world,"  replied 
Mr.  Nolley.  "  And  here  let  me  thank  you  for  your 
exceeding  kindness,  and  your  Christian-like  forbear- 
ance, until  you  had  reason  to  suppose  that  I  had  for- 
feited all  claims  upon  your  regard.  And  as  for  our 
afflicted,  repentant  friend  Wolsey,  may  Heaven  for- 
give him  as  freely  as  I  do !  With  your  permission, 
Brother  Bellamy,  he  shall  keep  that  Bible,  the  bare 
sight  of  which,  I  doubt  not,  will  henceforth  be  a  suf- 
ficient safeguard  against  his  falling  again  into  sin." 

The  church-meeting  that  day  proved  to  be  the 
most  interesting  one  that  had  ever  been  held.  The 
result  gave  universal  satisfaction,  as  it  not  only 
accounted  for  the  missing  mutton,  and  the  deacon's 
absence  from  the  Sabbath  worship,  but  likewise 


136  MUTTON   IN   BRAMBLETOWN. 

proved  his  great  goodness  of  heart,  and  made  man- 
ifest the  worth  and  forbearance  of  the  excellent  min- 
ister, besides  bringing  John  Wolsey  to  abandon  his 
wicked  ways. 

Shortly  after  this  event,  Deacon  Bellamy  was  sent 
to  represent  the  people  of  Brambletown  in  the  state 
legislature ;  and  it  was  owing  chiefly  to  his  exertions 
that  the  famous  Wolf  Bounty  Bill  was  passed,  which 
resulted  in  a  great  slaughter  of  the  enemy  of  the 
sheep,  and  had  a  marked  influence  on  the  mutton- 
market  in  Brambletown. 


MISFORTUNES  OF  BASIL  GRAY. 


IT  was  the  anniversary  of  Basil  Gray's  wedding- 
day.  A  beautiful  summer  morning  smiled  upon 
the  lowly  cottage  which  had  now  contained  all  his 
happiness  and  joy  for  two  fleeting  years.  Taking 
the  hand  of  his  beloved  Mary,  while  the  sweet 
baby  lay  sleeping  in  the  cradle,  he  led  her  forth 
into  the  garden,  brushing  the  dew  from  the  jas- 
mines that  climbed  by  the  door-way,  as  he  passed. 

Basil  loved  this  little  garden  the  more,  as  it 
was  mostly  by  Mary's  own  hand  that  the  veg- 
etables there  had  been  planted,  and  the  flowers 
trained  to  grow.  He  could  see  her  spirit  of  neat- 
ness and  taste  even  in  the  little  paths,  so  beautifully 
laid  out,  and  kept  free  from  weeds.  Her  love  had 
made  that  garden  and  that  cottage  dearer  to  him 
than  princely  palaces  and  rich  domains ;  and  he  was 
fond  of  standing  there  proudly  by  her  side,  to  sur- 
12* 


138  THE   MISFORTUNES   OP   BASIL   GKAY. 

vey  the  compact  little  paradise  which  they  called 
home. 

And  never  had  Basil's  soul  been  so  exalted  with 
hope  and  happiness  as  on  that  summer  morning. 
The  sun  never  shone  with  fairer  splendor;  the 
sweetest  breath  of  spring  seemed  there  again,  heavy 
with  fragrance,  elastic  with  the  essence  of  life  ;  and 
the  songs  of  birds  filled  the  air  with  purest  notes  of 
joy.  Basil's  heart  seemed  to  expand  within  his 
breast. 

"  How  has  a  kind  Providence  smiled  upon  us, 
Mary  !  "  he  murmured,  in  tones  all  tremulous  with 
fervent  thankfulness.  "Ah!  you  are  the  good 
angel  of  my  life !  Since  a  rare  fortune  gave  you 
to  me,  everything  has  gone  well  with  me.  Why, 
three  years  ago  this  day,  I  was  a  sort  of  wanderer ; 
that  is,  I  had  no  home  I  could  call  my  own.  Now 
— 0,  Mary!"  — 

"  Your  industry,  honesty  and  kindness,  have  been 
rewarded,"  said  Mary,  answering  Basil's  tender  look 
with  her  large,  affectionate  eyes.  "True,  I  have 
done  my  best  to  deserve  your  love  ;  my  devotion  to 
you  has  made  labor  pleasant,  and  life  sweet ;  but 
Providence  would  have  been  kind  to  you,  had  we 
never  seen  each  other,  —  you  are  so  good  !  " 

"  But  I  could  never  have  known  this  highest 
happiness,  Mary  !  You  have  chased  the  world  all 
out  of  my  heart.  I  have  no  thirst  for  wealth ;  I 


TILE   MISFORTUNES    OF    BASIL   GRAY.  139 

envy,  I  hate  no  one;  in  a  wilderness  I  should  be 
happy  with  you  and  our  darling.  Ah  !  it  is  pleasant 
to  look  back  two  years !  On  the  very  day  of  our 
marriage,  I  bought  this  cottage,  —  this  little  farm. 
I  had  three  hundred  dollars,  which,  by  some  good 
fortune,  I  had  been  able  to  save  from  my  earnings 
since  I  came  of  age.  That  I  paid  down  with  a  good 
heart,  trusting  to  Providence  for  health  and  strength 
to  enable  me  to  meet  the  other  payments  as  they 
should  come  due.  A  year  ago,  some  fairy  had  so 
well  managed  our  finances,  that  we  got  together  the 
requisite  sum,  without  knowing  hardly  how  we  did 
it.  To-day,  we  have  another  hundred,  which  I 
mean  shall  be  endorsed  on  the  mortgage  before  noon. 
In  another  year,  I  have  no  doubt  but  the  same  good 
Providence  will  favor  us  >  and  then  we  shall  be  out 
of  debt,  and  this  paradise  will  be  ours  indeed. 
People  told  me  it  was  dear  at  six  hundred  dollars, 
when  I  bought  it !  I  would  not  take  six  thousand 
for  it  to-day  ! " 

The  cries  of  the  child,  awaking  in  its  cradle, 
called  Mary  into  the  house,  and  Basil  followed  her 
soon.  The  young  farmer  intended  to  do  no  more 
work  that  day  than  necessity  required,  but  to  enjoy 
the  anniversary  with  Mary  and  their  friends.  Ac- 
cordingly, while  she  was  called  to  her  domestic 
duties  of  the  morning,  he  resolved  to  go  and  trans- 
act his  business  with  Judge  Bradwood,  of  whom  he 


140  THE   MISFORTUNES   OF   BASIL   GEAT. 

had  purchased  his  cottage,  and  to  -whom  he  was  that 
day  to  make  his  second  annual  payment. 

Basil  Gray  was  soon  attired  in  his  becoming  Sab- 
bath-day dress,  which  consisted  mostly  of  brown 
linen,  not  remarkably  fine,  but  durable,  and  scrupu- 
lously clean.  He  wore  a  straw  hat  of  Mary's  own 
braiding,  and  white  cotton  hose  of  her  own  knitting. 
A  white,  smoothly-ironed  collar,  guiltless  of  starch, 
rolled  gracefully  away  from  his  manly  throat,  over 
a  loose  black  neckerchief,  which  Mary  had  tied  into 
a  pretty  bow.  More  than  this,  he  was  cleanly 
shaved,  and  his  rich  black  hair  and  whiskers,  curling 
about  his  face,  set  off  his  noble  features  to  advan- 
tage. In  short,  Basil  Gray  that  morning  appeared 
as  handsome  a  young  farmer  as  could  be  found  in 
the  whole  country. 

As  soon  as  he  was  ready  for  a  start,  Mary  went 
to  the  bureau,  and  introducing  her  hand  dexterously 
into  a  sly  corner  of  the  topmost  drawer,  took  out  a 
small  bundle  of  bank-notes.  There  was  no  necessity 
for  counting  these ;  for,  on  the  preceding  evening, 
when  the  last  dollar  was  contributed  to  complete  the 
sum,  and  when  Basil  had  amused  himself  by  cast- 
ing, in  various  ways,  the  interest  on  the  mortgage, 
the  treasure  had  been  handled  and  examined  by  the 
happy  couple  with  more  than  miserly  satisfaction, 
until  the  exact  amount  of  dollars  and  cents  was  as 


THE   MISFORTUNES   OF    BASIL   GRAY.  141 

firmly  fixed  in  their  minds  as  their  own  ages  and 
little  Mary's. 

The  bundle  of  bank-notes,  being  composed  princi- 
pally of  ones,  with  only  a  sparse  sprinkling  of 
larger  bills,  was  found  to  be  rather  bulky  for  the 
pocket,  and  was  accordingly  bestowed  in  Basil's  hat. 
The  small  change  necessary  to  make  up  the  exact 
amount  of  interest-money  due  he  carried  in  his 
pocket.  Mary  had  an  eye  to  these  ingenious  ar- 
rangements, and,  having  seen  them  completed,  gave 
her  husband  a  kiss  and  a  blessing,  and  dismissed 
him  on  his  errand. 

Basil  went  whistling  or  singing,  with  a  heart 
light  as  a  school-boy's  on  a  holiday.  Everything 
appeared  to  him  beautiful,  and  fresh,  and  sweet,  that 
morning.  Happiness  opened  his  heart;  he  loved 
the  birds  that  sung  among  the  trees,  the  squirrels 
that  skipped  lightly  away  on  the  brown  fences  at 
his  approach,  and  paused  to  chatter  at  him  from  a 
distance,  and  even  the  butterflies  he  saw  hovering 
on  yellow  wings  around  the  flowers  that  bloomed  on 
the  road-side. 

Basil's  way  lay  through  a  small  grove  of  elm, 
ash,  and  birch  trees,  bounded  on  the  further  side  by 
a  deep  but  narrow  stream.  He  had  already  reached 
the  highway  bridge,  when,  hearing  shouts  of  laugh- 
ter down  the  river,  he  turned  his  eyes  in  that  direc- 
tion, and  saw  two  boys  at  play  on  the  rocks,  one  of 


142  THE   MISFORTUNES   OF   BASIL   GRAY. 

whom  he  recognized  as  the  son  of  Judge  Bradwood, 
and  the  other  as  a  lad  belonging  to  the  neighbor- 
hood. 

Basil  felt  himself  singularly  attracted  by  every- 
thing like  happiness  or  mirth  that  morning.  In- 
stead, therefore,  of  keeping  the  road,  after  crossing 
the  stream,  he  climbed  a  wall,  with  the  intention  of 
traversing  the  broad  field  which  stretched  away 
before  him  ;  for  he  could  thus  shorten  his  route  to 
the  judge's  house,  and  pass  near  enough  to  the  boys 
to  bid  them  a  good-morning. 

Basil  Gray  afterwards  said  some  good  spirit  must 
have  put  this  happy  idea  into  his  head.  It  gave 
him  the  opportunity  of  doing  one  of  those  brave 
and  generous  actions  in  which  such  noble  natures 
take  delight. 

The  young  farmer  paused  a  moment  to  contem- 
plate an  audacious  crow,  which,  apparently  forget- 
ting the  fear  of  man  that  characterizes  his  race, 
dropped  from  the  shadowy  top  of  an  ancient  elm, 
standing  alone  in  the  field,  and  flapped  his  black 
wings  within  half  a  dozen  feet  of  his  face. 

Basil  thought  the  wise  bird  must  have  read  his 
features,  and  seen  how  little  the  least  lovely  of  the 
fowls  of  the  air  had  to  fear  from  his  gentle  dis- 
position. However  this  might  have  been,  the  crow 
did  not  seem  inclined  to  prolong  the  interview,  but, 


THE   MISFORTUNES   OF   BASIL   GRAY.  143 

giving  two  short,  shrill  cries,  returned  to  the 
branches  of  the  elm. 

But  now  other  cries  drew  Basil's  attention.  Mas- 
ter Bradwood  had  disappeared  from  the  rocks,  and 
his  companion,  screaming  with  terror,  could  be  seen 
running,  as  if  for  his  life,  across  the  field. 

Struck  with  the  certainty  that  some  accident 
must  have  happened  to  Master  Bradwood,  Basil 
hastened  to  the  spot.  By  this  time  the  other  lad, 
who  had  not  apparently  seen  him,  was  almost  out 
of  sight,  in  the  direction  of  the  judge's  house.  The 
young  farmer  bounded  upon  the  rocks,  and  beheld 
the  occasion  of  his  terror  and  flight.  A  hat  of 
palm-leaf  was  floating  down  -the  stream,  which 
whirled  in  eddies,  and  gleamed  in  the  sunlight,  as  it 
dashed  against  the  rocks.  He  knew  Master  Brad- 
wood  had  fallen  into  the  water,  and  sunk. 

Our  hero  had  but  one  thought  aside  from  the 
rescue  of  his  neighbor's  son.  Taking  off  his  hat, 
and  placing  the  bank-notes  in  it  upon  the  ground, 
he  plunged  into  the  stream,  where  a  bubbling  and 
commotion  in  the  water  indicated  that  Henry  was 
still  struggling. 

Fortunately,  Basil  was  an  expert  swimmer.  He 
seized  the  boy,  and  drew  him  to  the  surface.  In 
consequence  of  the  steepness  of  the  rocks  from  which 
he  had  plunged,  he  swam  with  his  charge  to  the 


144  THE   MISFORTUNES   OF   BASIL   GRAY. 

opposite  bank,  where  it  would  bo  less  difficult  to  get 
him  out  of  the  water. 

After  considerable  blubbering  and  vomiting,  Hen- 
ry, who  was  a  high-spirited  boy,  declared  himself 
but  little  the  worse  for  his  drenching.  His  hat  was 
then  fished  up,  and,  as  he  had  enough  of  the  water 
for  one  day,  he  thought  it  best  to  recross  the  stream 
in  the  usual  way,  on  the  bridge ;  in  which  decision 
he  was  joined  by  his  preserver,  on  whom  he  was 
very  glad  to  lean  in  walking. 

Henry  acknowledged  that  he  must  have  drowned 
had  it  not  been  for  Mr.  Gray,  and  thanked  the 
latter  accordingly  with  great  earnestness.  Basil 
replied  that  his  own  happiness  amply  repaid  him  for 
getting  wet,  and  promised  to  accompany  the  lad 
home  as  soon  as  he  should  have  regained  his  hat. 

The  young  farmer  found  this  article  of  apparel 
where  he  had  left  it ;  but,  as  he  stooped  to  take  it 
up,  his  youthful  companion  observed  that  he  changed 
countenance  in  a  most  extraordinary  manner. 

Basil  was,  in  effect,  overwhelmed  with  astonish- 
ment and  dismay.  His  hat  had  not,  apparently, 
been  stirred  from  the  spot  where  he  had  placed 
it;  but  the  money  —  the  bundle  of  bank-notes  — 
was  gone ! 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  asked  Henry,  with  feel- 
ings of  apprehension. 

Basil  gazed  a  moment  steadfastly  into  his  hat, 


THE   MISFORTUNES   OF   BASIL   GRAY.  145 

which  he  held  with  both  hands,  then  looked  quickly 
around  him,  as  if  to  discover  the  thief,  and  at  last 
said,  with  a  short  breath, 
*  "  Somebody  has  robbed  me  !  " 

"  Robbed  you  !  " 

"  Yes  ;  for  there  was  a  bundle  of  bills  —  over  a 
hundred  dollars  —  in  this  hat,  when  I  left  it  here. 
I  was  going  to  pay  your  father." 

"  But,"  said  Henry,  looking  all  around,  as  Basil 
had  done,  "  who  could  have  got  it  ?  Are  you  sure 
it  was  iu  your  hat  ? " 

"  As  sure  of  that  as  that  you  were  in  the  water," 
muttered  Basil.  "But  it  is  strange;  I  don't  see 
how  any  one  could  have  even  approached  the  rock 
without  being  seen,  and  the  money  could  not  have 
blown  into  the  water." 

Notwithstanding,  both  Basil  and  Henry  looked  in 
the  water,  as  well  as  all  around  them  on  the  ground, 
until  the  latter,  feeling  sick  and  faint,  was  obliged 
to  sit  down. 

Basil  observed  this,  and  said, 

"Well,  the  money  is  gone!  There  is  no  use 
spending  our  time  looking  for  it,  while  you  are  suf- 
fering from  your  drenching.  I  will  help  you  to  the 
house,  and,  having  explained  my  misfortune  to  your 
father,  come  back  and  see  what  can  be  done." 

Henry  was  too  unwell  to  say  much  about    the 
matter,  but  he  could  not  help  observing  Basil's  dis^ 
13 


146  THE   MISFORTUNES   OF   BASIL    QUAY. 

tress,  and  begged  him  not  to  leave  the  spot  as  long 
as  there  was  any  hope  of  finding  the  money. 

"  There  is  no  hope  of  finding  it,  until  I  know 
how  it  was  lost,"  said  Basil,  sorely  perplexed. 
'•'  But  yonder  is  your  father,  coming,  I  suppose,  to 
find  you." 

"  Ned  Manley  is  with  him,  who  ran  away  so, 
when  I  fell  into  the  water,"  said  Henry.  "  I  pre- 
sume he  has  been  and  told  everybody  I  am 
drowned." 

Judge  Bradwood  arrived,  in  great  haste  and 
excitement,  and  seemed  immensely  relieved  to  find 
that  his  son  had  been  rescued.  He  thanked  Basil 
earnestly,  and  pressed  the  wet  Henry  in  his  arms, 
as  if  to  wring  him  out. 

"  But,"  said  the  boy,  "  Mr.  Gray,  in  saving  my 
life,  has  met  with  a  great  misfortune." 

Basil,  called  upon  to  explain  this,  did  so  to  the 
best  of  his  power.  By  this  time,  he  had  recovered 
his  equanimity,  and  was  able  to  make  a  calm  state- 
ment of  the  fact ;  to  which  he  added,  good-humor- 
edly, 

"  How  the  money  has  been  spirited  away,  I  can't 
conceive ;  but  I  believe  it  has  been  taken  from  me 
because  I  was  too  happy,  and  had  no  thought  that 
sorrow  or  disappointment  could  ever  again  approach 
me  or  mine." 

The  judge  was  a  hard,  stern  man  of  the  world. 


THE   MISFORTUNES   OF   BASIL   GRAY.  147 

He  fixed  his  cold,  gray  eye  upon  Basil,  as  if  he 
would  have  read  his  heart.  Unfortunately,  he 
could  neither  peruse  nor  comprehend  such  hearts 
as  Basil's.  Even  at  that  time,  he  was  capable  of 
suspecting  the  honesty  of  the  brave  and  generous 
man  who  had  saved  the  life  of  his  son. 

"  It  does  not  seem  to  me  that  I  understand  this 
story,"  he  said,  with  the  same  look.  "You  say  this 
lad  ran  from  the  spot  without  seeing  you; — he 
could  not  then  have  taken  the  money ;  nor  is  it 
possible  any  one  else  could  have  approached  these 
rocks,  and  got  off  again,  without  being  seen  by 
you." 

"  I  think  so  myself,"  murmured  the  farmer. 

"  Now,  the  wind  could  not  have  blown  the  bundle 
out  of  your  hat " 

"  No,  it  could  n't  be  the  wind " 

"  Then  I  think  you  must  have  made  some  mis- 
take," said  the  judge,  in  a  significant  tone. 

Basil  was  too  honest  to  understand  those  words  or 
that  tone.  He  had  no  idea  that  his  statement  was 
doubted.  He  felt  only  the  misfortune  of  losing  a 
little  money.  This  grieved  and  perplexed  him  ;  to 
have  known  that  his  honor  was  at  stake,  would  have 
almost  broken  his  heart. 

He  requested  the  judge  to  give  a  few  days'  grace 
on  the  payment  then  due,  which  he  was  unable  to 
meet  on  account  of  his  misfortune. 


148  TIIE    MISFORTUNES    OF    BASIL    GUAY. 

"  I  am  never  hard  upon  an  honest  man,"  said  the 
judge;  and,  having  once  more  thanked  the  preserver 
of  his  son's  life,  —  more  coldly,  however,  than  at 
first,  —  he  took  the  boy  in  his  arms,  and  carried  him 
home. 

Basil  sat  down  upon  the  rock  in  a  meditative 
mood.  He  would  have  been  very  unhappy,  had  he 
not  been  comforted  by  the  consciousness  that  he  had 
met  with  his  loss  in  the  performance  of  a  good  action. 
Much  as  he  rejoiced,  however,  over  the  rescue  of 
Henry  from  drowning,  he  could  not  help  feeling 
sorely  perplexed  and  troubled.  Twice  he  uncon- 
sciously took  off  his  hat  and  looked  into  it,  as  if  it 
was  impossible  for  him  to  realize  that. the  money 
was  not  still  there. 

At  length  Basil  arose,  and,  with  a  sigh,  and  a 
parting  glance  at  the  rock,  set  out  to  carry  the 
strange  news  home  to  Mary. 

The  latter,  observing  his  approach,  ran  out  to 
meet  him,  and  was  greatly  astonished  to  find  him 
wet  in  person,  and  thoughtful  in  mind. 

The  young  wife  urged  him  to  change  his  clothes 
before  telling  his  story,  she  being  one  of  those  rare 
women  whose  domestic  affections  are  more  powerful 
than  their  curiosity. 

But  Basil  had  no  fear  of  taking  cold ;  and,  sitting 
down  by  Mary's  side,  in  the  door-way,  through  which 


THE   MISFORTUNES   OF   BASIL   GRAY.  149 

the  sun  shone  brightly,  he  related  what  had  hap- 
pened. 

It  is  needless  to  attempt  to  depict  the  young 
wife's  wonder  and  surprise.  As  soon  as  she  could 
recover  from  this  astonishment  sufficiently  to  speak 
calmly,  she  consoled  her  husband  by  praising  his 
generosity  and  courage  in  rescuing  Henry,  and 
assuring  him  that  good,  and  not  evil,  must  reward 
so  worthy  an  action. 

"  I  am  sure,"  said  she,  "  this  mystery  must  some 
time  be  explained,  and  the  money  recovered.  In 
the  mean  time,  Mr.  Bradwood  cannot  but  be  len- 
ient towards  us,  and  wait  for  his  pay  without  even 
exacting  interest  on  this  sum  you  have  lost." 

"  He  could  not  do  otherwise,  I  know,"  replied 
Basil.  "  He  is  called  a  hard  man,  but  I  do  believe 
him  just." 

The  young  man's  countenance,  however,  was  still 
downcast.  The  truth  is,  recollecting  and  pondering 
over  the  judge's  words,  the  possibility  had  appeared 
to  his  mind  that  he  might  not  put  perfect  faith  in 
his  assertions.  Basil  could  not  breathe  these 
thoughts  to  his  wife,  whom  he  knew  they  would 
cause  to  shudder  with  horror ;  but,  saying  that  he 
thought  it  best  to  go  once  more  to  look  for  the 
money,  he  removed  his  wet  clothes,  and  soon  after 
left  the  house. 

Having  placed  her  rooms  in  the  neatest  order,  and 
13* 


150  THE   MISFORTUNES   OF   BASIL   GRAY. 

made  ample  preparations  for  dinner,  Mary  was  per- 
forming the  delightful  task  of  dressing  her  child, 
when  Basil  again  returned. 

She  uttered  a  cry  of  alarm.  Those  \vho  had  seen 
him  only  at  the  time  when,  singing  in  the  fulness  of 
his  joy,  he  went  forth  two  hours  before,  would  not 
have  recognized  him  now.  His  features  were  deathly 
pale,  his  manly  brow  contracted,  and  the  light  of  his 
eyes  darkened  with  passion. 

"  My  dear  Basil ! "  exclaimed  Mary,  springing 
to  him  with  the  child  in  her  arms ;  "  what  has  hap- 
pened ?  Do  not,  I  pray,  let  this  little  loss  trouble 
you  !  Speak  to  me,  Basil !  " 

The  young  farmer  pressed  his  wife  and  child  to 
his  heart,  while  his  strong  chest  heaved,  and  his 
noble  eyes  filled  with  tears.  Mary  felt  a  drop  on 
her  hand. 

"  0,  my  dearest,  kindest  husband  ! "  she  mur- 
mured, in  a  voice  broken  by  her  emotions,  flinging 
her  arms  about  his  neck ;  "  is  there  any  sorrow 
which  I  should  not  share  with  you  ?  Tell  me, 
then,  what  troubles  you,  and  let  me  help  you  to 
bear  it ! " 

"  Anything,  but  this  !  "  muttered  Basil,  through 
his  closed  teeth.  "  Do  not  urge  me  !  You  must 
not  know  how  my  heart  has  been  wrung." 

His  voice  shook  with  passion  ;  his  features  were 
contracted  almost  fiercely.  Mary  was  terrified,  and 


THE   MISFORTUNES   OE   BASIL   GRAY.  151 

he  saw  that  she  could  not  be  more  painfullj-  moved, 
were  he  to  confess  all. 

"  Be  calm,  then,  and  you  shall  hear,"  he  said. 
"You  shall  know  how  grossly  your  husband  has 
been  insulted  by  one  at  whose  hands  he  certainly 
deserved  better." 

"  Insulted  !  "  articulated  Mary. 

"  Yes ;  and  it  is  a  wonder  that  these  hands  did 
not  tear  out  the  tongue  that  uttered  the  suspicion 
of  dishonor  !  I  was  tempted  to  do  it ;  I  trembled 
from  head  to  foot ;  I  even  held  the  miscreant  by  the 
throat ;  but  I  flung  him  from  me  in  contempt !  The 
brave  judge  ! " 

Basil  laughed  with  bitter  scorn. 

"  Not  Judge  Bradwood  !  "  said  Mary,  in  alarm. 

"  Judge  Bradwood,  indeed  !  I  could  have  torn 
him  piecemeal  !  "  exclaimed  Basil,  his  manner 
changing  suddenly.  "  For,  will  you  believe  it,  he 
insinuated  that  I  had  lied  about  the  money  !  " 

Mary  wrung  her  hands. 

"  Yes,  and  he  hinted  —  he  durst  not  speak  it 
openly  like  a  man  —  he  hinted  that,  having  saved 
his  boy's  life,  I  supposed  he  would  allow  me  to 
impose  upon  him,  for  fear  of  appearing  ungrateful ! 

0,  Mary  !  "  said  Basil,  completely  overcome  with 
his  emotions,  and  bursting  into  tears  ;  "  how  could 

1,  how  can  I  bear  this  wrong  ?  " 

Beyond  all  conception  of  value  is  the  jewel  df  a 


152  THE   MISFORTUNES    OF    BASIL   GRAVT. 

good  and  noble  wife  !  If  Basil  had  never  known 
Mary's  worth  before,  he  must  have  acknowledged  it 
then.  Forgetting  herself  entirely,  she  endeavored, 
by  her  pure  and  strong  affection  and  touching  sym- 
pathy, to  lead  him  to  shake  off  his  trouble,  overcome 
his  grief,  and  place  his  trust  in  Providence  for  a 
happy  termination  to  his  distress.  It  was  a  beauti- 
ful and'affecting  sight,  to  see  her  rule  him  by  her 
gentle  influence,  until  the  clouds  on  his  brow  dis- 
persed, and  the  sunshine  of  a  smile  overspread  his 
features. 

"  God  bless  you,  dearest !  "  he  said.  "  You  have 
shown  me  how  foolishly  I  acted.  Why  should 
I  let  injustice  trouble  my  heart,  whilst  you  are  left 
to  me,  and  our  little  Mary,  and  I  am  sure  of  your 
love  ? " 

In  a  little  while  he  appeared  quite  cheerful. 
Although  he  had  no  appetite  for  dinner,  he  did  not 
appear  despondent,  but  conversed  freely  with  Mary 
upon  the  course  to  be  pursued.  In  the  afternoon 
some  invited  friends  came  to  visit  them,  and  I  am 
not  sure  that  his  trouble  would  have  been  suspected, 
had  he  not  seen  fit  to  relate  his  story.  He  still  spoke 
with  bitterness,  however,  of  Judge  Bradwood ;  and 
Mary  was  sorry  to  see  it. 

Basil  was  gratified  to  observe,  that,  so  far  from 
appearing  to  doubt  a  word  of  his  narrative,  his 
friends  expressed  their  wonder  at  the  mystery,  and 


THE   MISFORTUNES   OF   BASIL   GRAY.  153 

their  sympathy  in  his  misfortune.  On  the  follow- 
ing day,  however,  opinions  of  a  less  favorable  nature 
became  rumored  about,  and  reached  his  ear.  Little 
as  he  cared  for  the  world,  in  comparison  with  his 
wife,  he  could  not  but  experience  a  pang  when  the 
conviction  that  the  judge's  influence  must  weigh 
heavily  against  him  flashed  more  vividly  upon  his 
mind. 

Time  realized  his  worst  apprehensions.  He  soon 
read  in  the  faces  of  his  neighbors  suspicions  touch- 
ing his  honesty  and  honor.  One  man,  James  Shut- 
tle, had  the  audacity  to  joke  him  about  the  "  trick  " 
he  "attempted  to  play  off  on  the  judge."  This 
was  the  unkindest  cut  of  all,  for  Basil  had  accounted 
Shuttle  a  friend. 

Meanwhile,  the  judge,  firmly  believing  his  debtor 
guilty  of  an  attempted  imposition,  and  exasperated 
by  his  violence,  made  no  scruple  of  publicly  pro- 
claiming his  opinions.  These  reached  Basil's  ear. 
He  saw  that  nobody  gave  him  credit  for  a  generous 
action  in  saving  Henry's  life,  but  that  everybody 
appeared  to  coincide  with  Judge  Bradwood.  His 
philosophy  was  not  equal  to  such  injustice.  He 
afterwards  confessed  that,  had  it  not  been  for  his 
wife's  counsel  and  consolation,  he  must  have  been 
driven  to  the  verge  of  insanity. 

About  a  week  after  the  unhappy  anniversary, 
Basil  received  a  notice  that  the  instalment  then  due 


154  THE   MISFORTUNES   OF   BASIL   GRAY. 

on  the  mortgage  must  be  paid.  Mr.  Bradwood  had 
borne  with  him  as  long  as  he  thought  proper  to  do 
so  ;  and  it  was  intimated  that  his  debtor's  evasions 
could  not  serve  him  longer. 

Basil  crushed  the  paper  in  his  strong  hands,  and 
muttered  through  his  teeth, 

"  This  is  too  much  !  As  there  is  justice  in  heaven, 
Judge  Bradwood  shall  suffer  for  this  !  " 

"  I  beseech  you,  do  not  use  such  language  !  " 
pleaded  Mary,  affectionately.  "  What  have  you  ?  " 

"  A  fresh  insult,  —  wrong  upon  wrong  !  "  ex- 
claimed Basil,  fiercely. 

Mary  glanced  her  eye  over  the  note. 

"But,  'vengeance  is  mine,'  saith  the  Lord,"  she 
answered,  turning  her  eyes  tenderly  upon  Basil. 
"  This  is  indeed  a  grievous  wrong,  yet  it  is  not  for 
man  to  avenge  what  God  permits.  0,  I  know  you 
could  not  harbor  such  a  thought  against  your  neigh- 
bor !» 

Basil  became  more  calm.  Mary  continued  ;  and 
in  a  little  while  he  answered  her  cheerfully, 

"  Bless  you  for  putting  better  thoughts  into  my 
heart,  dear  wife  !  I  am  now  resolved  I  will  return 
good  for  evil,  even  to  those  who  have  given  evil  for 
good.  It  is  hard  to  think  that  I  should  be  pressed 
for  that  which  I  lost  in  saving  the  life  of  this  man's 
son  ;  but  the  debt  shall  be  paid." 

Mary  trembled  as  she  saw  her  husband  arise  with 


THE   MISFORTUNES   OF   BASIL   GRAY.  155 

salmness  and  resolution  depicted  on  his  features.  She 
feared  some  desperate  act.  But  Basil,  reading  her 
thoughts,  reassured  her. 

"  I  shall  commit  no  rashness,"  he  said.  "  I  see 
but  one  way  to  meet  this  demand  without  parting 
•with  our  home,  and  that  way  I  shall  adopt." 

"  You  will  borrow  ?  " 

Basil  smiled  bitterly. 

"  I  shall  not  expose  myself  to  insult.  Mary.  At 
this  unhappy  time,  when  my  neighbors  —  God  for- 
give them  !  —  have  lost  their  faith  in  rny  honesty,  I 
could  not  have  the  heart  to  ask  a  loan  of  my  best 
friend.  No  !  —  but  there  is  Felix." 

Felix  was  a  beautiful  colt,  which  had  been  pre- 
sented to  Basil  by  a  former  employer,  on  his  wed- 
ding day. 

"  You  will  not  part  with,  him  ! "  exclaimed 
Mary. 

"What  can  I  do?"  replied  Basil.  "True,  ho 
•was  a  present ;  —  he  is  the  only  horse  I  own  ;  but, 
at  the  same  time,  he  is  the  only  property  I  can  dis- 
pose of.  More  than  once  Judge  Bradwood  has 
offered  me  one  hundred  dollars  for  him,  which  I 
have  always  refused.  But  now  he  must  go." 

"  Dear  Basil,  you  are  right !  "  exclaimed  Mary. 
"  It  is  hard  to  part  with  Felix,  but  I  trust  he  will 
again  come  back  to  you,  when  this  terrible  mystery 


156  THE   MISFORTUNES    OF   BASIL   GRAY. 

shall  have  been  explained,  your  money  found,  and 
your  character  cleared  from  suspicion." 

Basil  smiled  sadly,  and  shook  his  head.  And  a 
few  minutes  later  he  might  have  been  seen  leading 
his  colt  Felix  down  the  road  which  he  travelled  so 
joyously  on  the  morning  of  his  wedding-day  anni- 
versary. 

Basil  led  Felix  up  the  avenue  before  Judge  Brad- 
wood's  elegant  residence,  and  tied  him  to  a  post.  At 
that  moment  Henry,  now  quite  recovered  from  his 
experiment  at  drowning,  came  out  to  meet  him,  and 
greeted  him  kindly. 

"  I  hope,"  said  the  boy,  with  tears  in  his  eyes, 
occasioned  by  Basil's  coldness,  "  I  hope  you  don't 
feel  hard  towards  me,  because  I  have  been  the  means 
of  making  you  suffer  ?  " 

All  Basil's  ill  humor  gave  place  to  warm  emotions. 
He  took  the  boy's  proffered  hand,  and  tears  filled  his 
eyes. 

"God  bless  you,  dear  fellow!  —  why  should  I 
feel  hard  towards  you  ?  "  he  asked.  "  I  don't  con- 
sider you  the  cause  of  my  misfortune,  although  but 
for  you  it  might  not  have  happened  to  me  •  -—but, 
were  I  to  be  stripped  of  everything  in  the  world  in 
consequence  of  my  plunge  into  the  river,  I  should 
never  regret  having  done  so  to  save  your  life  ! 
What  are  you  crying  for  ? "  he  continued,  gayly. 
" Look,  I  have  brought  this  noble  colt  for  you;  that 


THE   MISFORTUNES   OP   BASIL   GRAY.  157 

is,  provided  the  judge  will  take  him  in  place  of  the 
money  I  lost.  He  is  well  broke,  and  you  will  delight 
to  ride  him." 

Henry  raised  his  tearful  eyes  with  a  reproachful 
look,  but  he  could  not  speak ;  and,  endeavoring  to 
stifle  his  emotions,  he  turned  away. 

"  If  the  judge  will  come  to  the  door,  I  'd  rather 
not  go  in,"  said  Basil.  "If  you  will  speak  to  him, 
I  will  stand  by  Felix." 

He  stroked  the  animal's  neck,  and  embraced  him 
affectionately,  whilst  Henry  entered  the  house. 

"  What 's  the  matter  ?  "  asked  the  judge,  looking 
at  him  sternly. 

"  Dear  father,"  said  the  boy,  throwing  his  arms 
around  his  neck,  "  I  want  to  ask  you  one  favor ;  and, 
if  you  will  grant  it,  you  may  take  all  my  playthings, 
and  I  will  not  ask  you  for  another  toy,  nor  anything 
of  the  kind,  in  a  year." 

"  What 's  the  meaning  of  this  ?  "  asked  the  judge, 
with  contracted  brows. 

"  Basil  Gray  —  the  man  who  saved  my  life  —  is 
at  the  door,"  replied  Henry.  "  He  has  come  to  pay 
you  ;  but  he  has  lost  all  his  money,  and  so  he  has 
brought  his  horse,  his  fine,  beautiful  colt  that  he 
loves  so  well,  and  he  says  you  can  have  him  now, 
though  he  would  never  sell  him  before." 

"Well,  sir?" 

Mr.  Bradwood  spoke  sternly ;  for,  much  as  he 
14 


158  THE   MISFORTUNES   OF   BASIL   GRAY. 

loved  his  son,  he  was  angry  when  he  thought  differ- 
ently from  himself. 

Henry  continued  : 

"  All  I  want,  all  I  ask  is,  that  you  should  take 
the  colt,  and  give  Mr.  Gray  a  receipt  in  full " 

"  0,  I  shall  not  hesitate  to  do  that !  "  interrupted 
the  judge. 

"  Then  say  to  him,  '  Mr.  Gray,  I  believe  you  are 
an  honest  man  ;  the  colt  is  yours,  —  take  him.'  Only 
do  that,  dear  father " 

"  You  are  out  of  your  head  !  —  you  don't  know 
what  you  ask  ! "  muttered  the  judge,  pushing  the 
boy  from  him. 

Henry  bowed  his  head,  and  left  the  room  sadly 
and  in  silence. 

The  judge  ordered  Basil  to  be  shown  into  the 
house. 

The  young  farmer  entered,  and  met  the  judge 
with  a  look  so  steady,  and  so  expressive  of  noble 
courage,  that  the  latter  could  not  but  feel  that  he 
was  in  the  presence  of  an  HONEST  MAN. 

"  I  have  come  to  you  on  business,"  said  Basil. 
"  My  colt,  Felix,  is  tied  in  the  yard.  I  have  con- 
cluded to  accept  your  offer  for  him." 

The  judge  turned  to  his  desk,  and  began  to 
write.  In  a  minute,  he  gave  Basil  a  piece  of 
paper. 

"  This  makes  one  hundred,"  said  the  latter,  as  he 


THE   MISFOBTUNES   OF   BASIL   GRAY.  159 

extended  his  hand.  "  I  trust  you  will  wait  on  me 
for  the  interest,  which  in  a  few  days " 

"  You  will  see  I  have  given  you  a  receipt  for 
interest  and  all,"  interrupted  the  judge.  "  I  think 
the  colt  is  well  worth  it." 

Basil  looked  at  the  judge  in  astonishment. 

"This  is  unexpected,"  said  he;  "but  I  thank 
you.  It  will  make  my  loss  somewhat  easier  to  me, 
although  that  is  nothing  in  comparison  with  the 
unjust  suspicions  which  blacken  my  character.  You, 
Judge  Bradwood,"  continued  Basil,  warming,  "have 
done  me  wrong  !  You  may  not  have  designed  it ; 
but  you  might  believe  the  word  of  an  honest  man, 
when  he  declares,  before  Heaven,  that,  notwithstand- 
ing his  unfortunate  loss,  he  has  neither  hoped  nor 
desired  to  avoid  paying  you  every  farthing  that  is 
your  due,  only  he  has  asked  that  you  would  not 
press  him,  but  give  him  time  to  recover  from  his 
misfortune.  Judge  Bradwood,  this  is  all  I  have 
to  say." 

While  Basil  was  speaking,  the  judge  did  not 
raise  his  eyes  from  the  carpet,  upon  which  he  was 
drumming  nervously  with  his  foot ;  and  when  his 
visitor  had  finished,  and  was  turning  to  go,  he 
neither  made  reply,  nor  so  much  as  moved  in  his 
seat.  Basil's  lip  curled.  He  turned  his  back  and 
left  the  house.  Felix  gazed  after  him,  as  he  walked 


160  THE   MISFORTUNES   OF   BASIL   GRAY. 

down  the  avenue,  and  uttered  a  low  whinny,  as  if 
to  call  him  back,  or  bid  him  good-by. 

Basil  could  not  help  heaving  a  sigh  at  parting  with 
his  favorite;  but  his  heart  was  lightened  by  the 
consciousness  of  having  done  right  in  making  the 
sacrifice,  and  he  went  home  whistling  and  singing 
by  the  way. 

"  We  will  be  happy  now,  Mary  !  "  he  said,  hope- 
fully. "  I  will  not  let1  this  affair  trouble  me  more." 

So  he  went  to  work  with  a  good  heart,  trusting  to 
time  to  clear  up  the  mystery  which  had  involved 
him  in  such  misfortunes. 

His  manly  conduct,  in  giving  up  his  horse  Felix 
to  his  creditor,  had  produced  on  the  latter  an  unex- 
pected effect.  He  could  not  help  thinking  now  that 
Basil  Gray  was  an  upright  man ;  and,  oppressed  by 
by  a  sense  of  wrong,  his  heart  was  softened  towards 
him,  and  in  speaking  of  him  he  was  less  severe. 
This  circumstance  favored  a  revolution  of  public 
opinion  in  Basil's  case,  and  in  a  little  while  his  old 
friends  appeared  to  come  back  to  him,  and  nobody 
spoke  of  the  mysterious  loss  of  his  money,  but  to 
express  their  wonder  and  their  sympathy. 

This  change  was  highly  gratifying  to  Basil  and 
Mary,  who  now  scarcely  gave  their  misfortunes  a 
thought  of  regret,  since  it  was  only  money  of  which 
they  had  been  robbed.  They  labored  industriously, 
hoping  that  before  another  year  they  would  have 


THE  MISFORTUNES  OF  BASIL  GRAY.     101 

their  little  farm  clear  of  debt,  and  believing  that 
their  trials  were  at  an  end. 

But  in  this  they  were  sadly  mistaken.  A  greater 
calamity  than  had  yet  befallen  them  lurked  like  a 
viper  among  the  flowers  of  their  path.  A  more 
fearful  mystery  involved  them  in  its  shadows. 

A  mild  day  in  October  was  drawing  to  its  close, 
•when  Basil,  who  had  business  with  a  neighbor  across 
the  river,  walked  leisurely  down  the  road,  which  I 
have  already  described. 

The  sun  had  gone  down,  and  the  glow  of  fire  was 
fading  on  the  masses  of  clouds  which  towered  in  the 
western  sky,  when  the  young  farmer  crossed  the 
bridge.  Here,  in  a  meditative  mood,  he  paused  for 
an  instant,  to  look  back  upon  the  sombre  woods 
through  the  deepening  shadows  of  which  he  had  just 
passed,  and  down  at  the  waters  which  swept  with 
hoarse  murmurs  beneath  the  rude  structure. 

Having  cast  his  eye  towards  the  memorable  rock, 

—  which  now  appeared  dim  and  dark  in  the  distance, 

—  and  heaved  a  sigh  of  impatience  at  the  thought 
of  the  unexplained  mystery  of  which  he  had  been 
the4  victim,  he  was  passing  on,  when   his  attention 
was  attracted  by  a  crackling  sound  beneath  his  feet. 

Basil  might  have  been  a  couple  of  rods  from  the 

bridge,  when  he  stooped  to  ascertain  the  cause  of 

the  noise.     He  had  evidently  crushed  some  brittle 

substance;  and,  picking  up  a  few  fragments,  he  dis- 

14* 


162  THE   MISFORTUNES   OF   BASIL   GRAY. 

covered  them  to  be  glass.  Judging,  from  their  ap- 
pearance, that  they  might  have  once  formed  the  crys- 
tal of  a  watch,  he  looked  more  closely  along  the 
ground  in  the  twilight,  and  perceived  a  small,  dark 
object  lying  on  the  side  of  the  road.  He  took  it 
up.  To  his  surprise,  he  found  it  to  be  a  pocket- 
book. 

It  was  now  too  dark  to  examine  its  contents,  and 
Basil  accordingly  placed  it  in  his  pocket.  Having 
looked  still  further,  and  discovered  nothing,  the 
young  farmer  was  proceeding  on  his  way,  when  he 
was  met  by  the  neighbor  whom  he  was  going  to 
visit,  accompanied  by  young  Henry  Bradwood,  and 
one  of  his  father's  laborers. 

Basil  did  not  recognize  them  at  first,  and  was 
therefore  silent,  until  Mr.  Shuttle  accosted  him. 

"Ho!  Gray,  is  that  you?  Have  you  seen  the 
judge  ? " 

"  Judge  Bradwood  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  I  have  not,"  answered  Basil,  briefly,  not  liking 
to  speak  of  that  man. 

"  0,  Mr.  Gray,"  exclaimed  Henry,  running  up  to 
him,  "  father  rode  Felix  away  this  afternoon,  and 
now  Felix  has  been  seen  galloping  by  Mr.  Shuttle's 
house  with  an  empty  saddle,  and  we  are  afraid  some 
accident  has  happened." 


THE  MISFORTUNES   OP  BASIL   GRAY.  163 

"  The  horse  came  from  this  direction,"  said  Mr. 
Shuttle.  "  You  must  have  seen  him." 

"  I  saw  a  man  ride  by  my  house  some  half  an 
hour  ago,"  answered  Basil;  "but,  as  I  was  a  good 
jA'ay  off,  in  the  field,  I  don't  know  whether  it  was 
the  judge  or  not." 

"  It  must  have  been,"  put  in  Williams,  the  hired 
man.  "  And  he  has  been  thrown  from  that  colt. 
I  told  him  he  'd  better  be  careful  how  he  rode  him, 
for  he  has  a  way  of  shying  at  about  nightfall,  and 
the  judge  is  no  great  horseman." 

At  that  moment  Basil  remembered  the  broken 
crystal  and  the  pocket-book.  The  latter  he  pro- 
duced, exclaiming, 

"  I  am  afraid  what  you  say  is  true.  I  picked 
this  up  in  the  road,  not  a  dozen  rods  back." 

"  It 's  father's !  "  exclaimed  Henry,  with  emotion. 

"  Do  not  be  distressed,"  said  Basil.  "  This  might 
have  fallen  from  your  father's  pocket;  but,  as  he 
was  not  with  it,  I  take  it  he  is  not  so  much  hurt  but 
that  he  has  been  able  to  walk  off —  probably  across 
the  field." 

"  Then  he  is  home  by  this  time,"  rejoined  Henry, 
much  relieved.  "  But  let  us  examine  the  ground 
where  you  picked  up  the  pocket-book." 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  spot,  and, 
looking  along  the  road  more  carefully  than  Basil 
had  done  before,  they  discovered  traces  of  some 


164  TUB   MISFORTUNES   OF   BASIL   GRAY, 

object  dragged  over  the  ground.  The  dust,  too,  was 
found  to  be  moistened  into  mud  in  spots.  Suddenly 
Henry  uttered  a  cry  of  horror. 

"  It  is  blood !  "  he  exclaimed,  —  "  blood  !  " 

"  Nonsense  !  "  answered  Williams.  —  "  But  —  ii^ 
does  seem  like  it !  And  here  is  where  a  —  a  body 
has  been  dragged  away  from  the  road ! " 

Basil  had  forgotten  all  the  wrongs  he  had  suf- 
fered, in  his  anxiety  to  learn  the  fate  of  the  judge. 
Along  the  side  of  the  road  ran  a  shallow  ditch,  now 
dry,  but  which,  in  wet  times,  poured  its  waters  into 
the  river.  He  was  the  first  to  trace  the  trail  down 
this  ditch,  toward  the  stream.  Shuttle,  however, 
sprang  before  him,  and,  directly  beneath  the  jutting 
timbers  of  the  bridge,  at  the  very  edge  of  the  water, 
he  discovered  the  body  of  the  judge. 

"  Here  he  is  !  "  shouted  Shuttle,  in  an  agitated 
voice,  too  much  frightened  to  lay  his  hands  upon 
the  body. 

Henry  ran  to  the  spot. 

'  "0,  father!"  he  shrieked,  throwing  himself 
upon  the  senseless  form  of  the  judge.  "  Look  up  ! 
—  speak  to  me  !  —  dear,  dear  father  !  " 

As  there  was  no  word  nor  motion  in  reply,  the 
poor  boy  lay  sobbing  upon  his  father's  shoulder. 

Basil  raised  him  gently,  and,  speaking  calmly  to 
his  companions,  directed  them  to  ascertain  if  life 
was  extinct.  This  they  were  both  too  much  agitated 


THE   MISFORTUNES   OF   BASIL   GRAY.  165 

to  do.  Accordingly,  giving  Henry  into  Shuttle's 
charge,  he  himself  laid  his  hand  first  on  the  brow 
and  then  on  the  heart  of  the  judge.  Afterwards, 
raising  his  head  in  his  arms,  he  sprinkled  his  face 
with  water  from  the  stream.  In  a  moment,  the 
judge  appeared  to  revive,  and  actually  got  upon  his 
feet.  With  a  wild  laugh,  Henry  sprang  forward  to 
throw  himself  in  his  arms;  but  the  judge  stag- 
gered, and  would  have  fallen  headlong,  had  not 
Basil  supported  him. 

"  Are  you  much  hurt  ?  "  asked  Basil. 

"I?  —  hurt?"  echoed  the  judge,  reeling  again. 
"  No,  indeed  !  I  am  not  afraid  of  the  fellow,  with 
all  his  bull-dogs.  He  would  kill  me,  if  he  could ; 
but  I  don't  care  for  him." 

"  Who  would  ? "  asked  Basil. 

"That  fellow  Gray,"  replied  the  delirious  judge. 
"  He  has  sworn  vengeance,  and  I  don't  blame  him ; 
but  I  've  baffled  him  so  far,  and  I  '11  risk  him  in 
future ! " 

"  0,  father  ! "  cried  the  terrified  boy,  "  this  is 
Mr.  Gray  ?  Don't  you  know  him  ?  " 

"  Know  him  ?  Yes,  I  should  think  so  !  He  is 
Hawkins,  the  Quaker.  He  is  opposed  to  strife." 

Henry  uttered  a  cry  of  horror,  and  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands.  The  Hawkins  whom  the  judge 
took  Basil  to  be,  had  been  dead  ten  years. 

"What  do  you  call  him  Gray  for,  you  little 


1GG  THE   MISFORTUNES   OF    BASIL   GRAY. 

imp  !  "  exclaimed  the  delirious  man.  "  Gray  would 
throw  me  into  the  water  as  quick  as  he  would  eat 
his  dinner,  and  nobody  would  blame  him  either." 

"  I  will  not  let  him  hurt  you,"  said  Basil,  humor- 
ing the  conceit.  "You  will  go  home  with  me, 
won't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Hawkins,  and  much  obliged  to  you. 
I  've  been  standing  on  these  steps,  waiting  for  the 
stage,  all  of  two  hours.  But  how  are  we  going  to 
travel  ? " 

"  By  rail-road,"  said  Basil. 

"  That  will  do.  I  won't  patronize  stage-coaches 
any  longer.  Won't  it  be  a  good  thing  when  balloon 
steamers  are  invented  ?  " 

"  Undoubtedly." 

"  But  let  me  tell  you  one  thing  in  confidence, 
Mr.  Hawkins  !  There  's  danger  from  these  balloon 
steamers !  By  the  way,  would  n't  it  please  that 
fellow  Gray  to  have  me  fall  out  of  one,  and  strike 
somewhere  in  the  Maelstrom,  or  the  Indian  Ocean? 
Ha  !  ha  !  " 

"  I  think  you  have  fallen  from  something  already ; 
you  appear  to  be  hurt,"  said  Basil,  who  had  now, 
with  Shuttle's  assistance,  got  the  judge  into  the 
road. 

"  The  truth  is,  I  jammed  my  fingers  between  a 
couple  of  pesky  icebergs  !  "  muttered  Mr.  Bradwood, 
"  that 's  all.  Look,"  —  holding  up  his  hand,  which 


THE   MISFORTUNES   OF   BASIL   GRAY.  167 

was  covered  with  blood,  —  "  don't  you  think  I  am 
entitled  to  a  pension  ?  " 

Williams,  meanwhile,  had  gone  with  all  speed  for 
a  vehicle  to  convey  the  judge  home.  Henry  re- 
mained with  Basil  and  James,  whom  anxiety  would 
not  permit  him  to  leave  alone  with  his  father. 
Evening  was  now  advancing,  but  the  moon  was  up, 
and  by  its  light  the  blood  could  be  seen  coursing 
down  the  judge's  face  from  a  wound  in  his  head. 
Hoping  to  check  the  blood,  Basil  tied  a  handker- 
chief about  his  temples,  while  Henry  mechanically 
carried  in  his  hand  his  father's  hat,  which  he  had 
found  hidden  in  a  corner  of  the  fence. 

In  a  little  while  Williams  returned,  and  Brad- 
wood,  talking  wildly  all  the  time,  was  taken  home 
by  the  hired  man  and  James  Shuttle,  whilst  Basil 
went  for  the  nearest  physician. 

Having  done  his  duty,  and  transacted  with  Mr. 
Shuttle  the  neighborly  business  which  had  taken 
him.  from  home,  Basil  returned  to  relate  to  Mary 
what  had  happened.  The  latter  was  deeply  inter- 
ested, and,  expressing  her  satisfaction  that  no  worse 
calamity  had  befallen  the  Bradwoods,  inquired  the 
cause  of  the  injured  man's  being  found  in  so  singu- 
lar a  position  by  the  bridge,  and  so  far  from  the 
place  of  his  fall. 

"  In  his  deranged  state,  consequent  on  his  injury, 
lie  must  have  crept  there,"  replied  Basil ;  "  for  I 


168  THE   MISFORTUNES   OF   BASIL   GRAY. 

can't,  for  a  moment,  entertain  so  absurd  a  suspicion 
as  Shuttle  suggested,  that  there  was  an  attempt  at 
robbery,  and  perhaps  murder." 

"  Horrid ! " 

"  Horrid,  indeed  ;  and  I  am  glad  few  people  are 
so  stupid  as  James  Shuttle." 

Entertaining  this  honest  opinion,  Basil  was  des- 
tined soon  to  be  more  than  ever  horrified  and  aston- 
ished. 

On  the  following  day,  when  Mary  was  alone  with 
her  child,  two  men  rode  up  to  the  garden  fence  in 
an  open  buggy,  and,  while  one  remained  in  the 
vehicle,  the  other  entered  the  house. 

Mary  recognized  a  neighbor,  named  Holburn, 
whom  she  invited  to  be  seated,  and  of  whom  she 
inquired  concerning  Judge  Bradwood. 

"  The  judge  is  in  a  bad  state,"  replied  Holburn. 
"  His  skull  is  fractured,  and  he  has  quite  lost  his 
senses.  Dr.  Morton  gives  only  faint  hopes  of  his 
recovery.  Excuse  my  haste,  Mrs.  Gray ;  I  wish, 
to  see  your  husband." 

The  embarrassed  tone  in  which  the  last  words 
were  spoken  aroused  Mary's  apprehensions.  She 
readily  told  where  Basil  was  to  be  found,  but  added, 
quickly, 

"  I  hope  there  is  not  going  to  be  any  trouble  in 
this  matter  ?  " 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  Mr.  Holburn. 


TIIE   MISFORTUNES   OF   BASIL   GRAY.  169 

Bowing  stiffly,  he  walked  back  to  the  road ;  and 
having  spoken  with  his  companion,  they  tied  the 
horse  to  the  fence,  and  set  out  together,  in  the 
direction  Mary  had  indicated,  to  find  Basil. 

Mary  turned  pale,  and  clasped  her  hands  in  silent 
prayer ;  for  she  remembered  that  Mr.  Holburn  held 
the  office  of  constable. 

Oppressed  with  vague  forebodings  of  evil,  she 
waited  anxiously  for  the  return  of  the  men  from 
the  field.  She  strained  her  eyes  gazing  along  the 
brown  hillside  ;  and  when  at  length  she  saw  three, 
instead  of  two,  advancing  amid  the  stalks  of  corn, 
her  heart  sank  within  her,  in  spite  of  her  better 
reason. 

Mary's  first  glance  at  her  husband,  discovered  to 
her  that  trouble  had  come  upon  him.  He  was  not 
skilled  in  concealing  his  emotions.  His  haggard 
countenance  was  a  picture  of  his  dismay.  Ap- 
proaching his  wife,  however,  he  attempted  to  appear 
unconcerned,  and  said,  as  calmly  as  he  could, 

"  I  have  got  to  go  with  these  men  a  little  while, 
and,  perhaps,  shall  not  be  back  to  dinner.  Take 
care  of  little  Mary,"  he  added,  in  a  tremulous  voice, 
while  he  bent  over  the  child,  and,  kissing  it,  let  fell 
a  tear  upon  its  fair  cheek.  "  Good-by  !  " 

"  0,  I  see  —  I  see  it  all !  "   ejaculated   Mary, 
clinging  wildly  to  Basil.     "  0,  when  will  our  mis- 
fortunes be  at  an  end  !  " 
15 


170  THE   JIISFOB.TUXES   OF   BASIL    GRAY. 

"  Soon,  I  hope,"  murmured  Basil.  "  This  mat- 
ter will  be  easily  explained." 

"  0,  I  know  it !  It  must  be  so  !  "  exclaimed 
Mary.  "  But  —  it  is  horrible  !  "  she  added  passion- 
ately. "  I  can  have  no  patience  under  such  Avrongs 
as  this  !  Yet,  God's  will  be  done  !  " 

"  Amen  !  "  faltered  Basil. 

He  took  his  wife's  hands,  and,  looking  tenderly 
and  sorrowfully  into  her  eyes,  bade  her  be  of  good 
heart  until  the  storm  of  trouble  was  over.  She 
threw  herself,  sobbing,  upon  his  neck,  and  clung 
there  until  he  gently  put  her  arms  asunder,  and  tore 
himself  away. 

Basil  departed  with  the  officers,  leaving  the 
broken-hearted  Mary  distracted  with  fear,  anxiety, 
and  grief. 

Alas  !  the  young  wife's  worst  fears  were  destined 
to  be  realized.  It  would  seem  that  Satan  had 
obtained  permission  to  try  that  happy  family  with 
affliction,  and  that  he  was  pursuing  his  power  to 
extremes. 

Basil  was  taken  before  a  justice,  and  examined 
under  suspicions  of  robbery,  and  attempted  murder ! 
Had  not  his  character  for  honesty  and  uprightness 
been  well  known,  there  might  have  been  some 
grounds  for  the  charge.  "  Circumstances "  vrere 
certainly  against  him.  Judge  Bradwood,  still  de- 
ranged, and  trembling  on  the  verge  of  the  grave, 


THE   MISFORTUNES   OF   BASIL   GRAY.  171 

was  in  no  state  to  give  an  explanation  of  the  man- 
ner of  his  hurt.  The  only  injury  he  \vas  supposed 
to  have  suffered  was  a  blow  on  the  head,  which  had 
fractured  his  skull.  This  might  have  been  occa- 
sioned by  a  fall  from  his  horse  ;  but  the  hypothesis 
threw  no  light  on  the  circumstance  that  he  was 
found  at  a  distance  from  the  spot  where  the  catas- 
trophe had  evidently  taken  place. 

Basil's  explanation  of  the  manner  in  which  the 
pocket-book  came  into  his  possession  was  not  con- 
sidered perfectly  satisfactory.  There  was  another 
fact  adduced  to  show  that  some  foreign  agency  was 
involved  in  Judge  Bradwood's  misfortune.  The 
crystal  of  his  watch  was  found  in  fragments,  but 
the  watch  itself  had  disappeared,  —  guard,  seal,  and 
all.  People,  wise  in  their  own  conceit,  alleged  that, 
although  Basil  had  thought  proper,  after  examining 
the  contents  of  the  pocket-book,  to  give  it  up,  be- 
cause there  happened  to  be  little  money  in  it,  he  had 
probably  taken  the  trouble  to  conceal  so  valuable  a 
watch  until  such  time  as  he  could  dispose  of  it 
with  safety.  It  was  also  attested  that  Basil  cher- 
ished feelings  of  enmity  towards  the  judge:  and  the 
inference  was  drawn  that  rage  at  seeing  the  latter 
mounted  on  the  colt  Felix  prompted  the  perpetra- 
tion of  the  crime. 

It  is  useless,  however,  to  attempt  an  exposition 
of  the  circumstantial  evidence  brought  forward,  as 


172  THE   MISFORTUNES    OP   BASIL   GRAY. 

an  offset  to  Basil's  straight-forward,  candid  narration 
of  facts.  It  is  sufficient  to  state  the  unfortunate 
result :  he  was  committed  to  the  county  jail. 

Poor  Mary  was  crushed  with  this  calamity  as 
with  a  thunderbolt.  When  the  intelligence  was 
communicated  to  her,  she  fell  in  a  swoon ;  and  for 
three  weeks  she  was  bodily  and  mentally  prostrated 
•with  fever  and  delirium.  Her  life  was  at  one  time 
despaired  of;  but,  owing  to  the  kind  care  of  friends 
who  came  to  administer  to  her  distress,  and  attend 
to  the  wants  of  her  child,  she  recovered  at  length, 
and  summoned  all  her  strength  to  surmount  the 
terrible  affliction  which  had  come  upon  her  family. 
Had  she  been  alone  in  these,  she  might  have  sunk 
into  the  grave ;  but  she  thought  of  her  imprisoned 
husband,  and  of  her  helpless  child,  and  strength 
came  to  her,  as  if  from  above. 

When  the  Autumn  had  put  off  her  garments  of 
gorgeous  hues,  and  the  sweet  melancholy  of  Octo- 
ber had  disappeared  at  the  approach  of  November's 
dark  and  desolate  days,  —  when  the  cold  breath  of 
night  congealed  into  dreary  frosts,  and  the  naked 
woods  were  filled  with  moaning  winds  and  drifts  of 
withered  leaves,  —  Mary,  pale  and  thin,  as  if  the 
chilling  gloom  of  the  waning  year  had  dealt  with 
her  unkindly,  went,  for  the  first  time,  to  visit  her 
husband  in  prison. 

The  county  jail  was   two  miles  distant ;    but  a 


THE    MISFORTUNES   OF   BASIL   GRAY.  173 

neighbor  having  offered  her  the  use  of  his  horse  and 
wagon,  and  volunteered  as  driver,  the  unhappy 
woman  resolved  to  take  her  child  with  her,  to  cheer 
the  father's  heart. 

It  would  require  a  readier  pen  than  mine  to 
depict  Mary's  sensations  on  approaching  the  jail. 
She  had  thought  of  what  Basil  must  suffer,  in  tho 
loneliness  of  his  prison,  deprived  of  her  society,  and 
groaning  under  the  opprobrium  of  the  charge  against 
him,  until  her  crushed  and  bleeding  heart  would 
have  deemed  her  life  a  sweet  sacrifice  to  lay  down, 
to  right  his  wrongs,  and  to  relieve  him  of  his  bur- 
den of  misery. 

The  prison  door  was  opened.  Basil,  haggard  and 
emaciated,  tottered  forward  with  a  stifled  cry. 
Mary,  fainting  with  the  excess  of  her  emotions,  fell 
into  his  arms,  and  for  the  space  of  more  than  a 
minute  lay  breathless,  motionless,  almost  lifeles,  on 
his  breast. 

For  a  long  time  she  was  speechless ;  but  words 
of  passionate  endearment,  and  tears  of  gushing  ten- 
derness falling  upon  her  cold  cheek,  revived  her. 
She  murmured  a  blessing,  and  sobbed  convulsively 
on  his  bosom. 

"  And  here  is  my  little  darling,  too,"  said  Basil, 
drawing  the  child  towards  him.  "  0,  Mary  !  my 
dear,  dear  wife !  I  am  happy  to-day,  in  spite  of  all 
1  have  suffered !  I  heard  of  your  sickness,  —  I 


174  THE   MISFORTUNES   OF   BASIL   GRAY. 

have  been  tortured  with  anxiety,  —  but  God  has 
spared  you,  —  we  meet  again,  and  I  am  thank- 
ful !  " 

If  to  a  mere  spectator  it  is  an  affecting  sight  to 
see  tears  gush  from  a  manly  heart  like  Basil's,  what 
must  have  been  the  effect  on  a  wife  of  deep  affec- 
tions, and  self-sacrificing  love,  like  Mary  ?  A 
shower  of  tears  burst  from  her  own  eyes ;  she 
embraced  her  husband  with  the  most  passionate 
tenderness  ;  and  in  broken  accents  she  assured  him 
of  her  love,  and  of  her  gratitude  for  the  privilege 
of  being  with  him  again.  After  this  she  felt  re- 
freshed, and  became  more  calm,  so  that  she  was 
able  to  converse  rationally,  and  like  the  noble 
woman  that  she  was,  about  all  their  trials  and 
afflictions. 

Basil  could  not  help  smiling  kindly  at  the  words 
which  were  so  characteristic  of  her  piety  and  good- 
ness, when  she  said,  wiping  her  eyes,  and  fixing 
them  lovingly  and  hopefully  on  her  husband, 

"  After  all,  it  is  better  to  suffer  wrong  than  to 
commit  it.  With  clear  consciences,  we  can  bow 
meekly  and  uncomplainingly  to  sorrow.  With  God 
on  our  side,  we  may  defy  injustice,  and  all  will  be 
made  right  in  the  end.  Something  tells  me,  dear 
Basil,  that  the  time  is  not  far  distant  when  we  shall 
be  able  to  look  back  with  satisfaction  to  these  dark 
days  of  trial ;  —  meanwhile,  we  will  not  be  sepa- 


THE   MISFORTUNES   OF    BASIL   GRAY.  175 

rated.  I  shall  be  with  you,  and  we  will  not  be 
unhappy." 

"  Ah,  my  little  philosopher  !  "  said  the  prisoner, 
embracing  her  fondly,  "  we  shall  not  be  unhappy 
together  here !  But  I  will  allow  you  to  spend 
only  a  portion  of  your  time  within  these  gloomy 
walls.  To  see  you  often  will  be  a  sufficient  bless- 
ing to  inspire  me  with  patience,  hope  and  Christian 
trust,  until  the  angel  of  Truth  shall  roll  the  stone 
away  from  this  tomb,  and  let  in  his  heavenly  light." 

Basil  was  interrupted  by  the  jailer,  who  came  to 
inform  him  that  another  visitor  earnestly  claimed 
admittance,  to  bring  him  joyful  news. 

"  Who  is  he  ?  "  asked  the  prisoner. 

"  Young  Henry  Bradwood,"  replied  the  jailer, 
"He  says  you  will  be  glad  to  see  him,  even  though 
he  must  interrupt  your  present  interview." 

"  He  is  a  fine  lad,  —  I  will  see  him,"  said  Basil. 

A  minute  later,  Henry  bounded  to  the  prisoner's 
side,  and  clasping  his  hands,  exclaimed, 

"  It 's  all  right,  now  !  The  mystery  is  cleared  ! 
In  five  minutes  you  will  be  free  !  The  orders  are 
on  the  way,  now,  to  set  you  at  liberty ;  but  I  had 
to  come  on  before  to  tell  you  !  " 

"  The  mystery  cleared  !  "  cried  Basil,  his  features 
lighting  up,  —  "  about  the  lost  money  and  all  ?  " 

"  The  lost  money  is  found,  —  it 's  all  right !  it 's 
all  right ! "  repeated  Henry,  beside  himself  with  joy. 


176  THE   MISFORTUNES    Of   BASIL   GRAY. 

"  Then  heaven  be  praised !  "  articulated  Mary 
fervently.  "  This  is  the  happiest  news  I  have  ever 
heard  !  0,  Basil !  the  stone  is  rolling  away  !  " 

She  yearned  to  embrace  her  husband  ;  but  regard* 
ing  the  presence  of  Henry,  she  forbore,  giving  vent 
to  her  feelings  by  clasping  her  child,  with  tears  of 
thankfulness. 

Meanwhile,  Basil  urged  Henry  to  explain ;  and 
the  glad  boy,  recovering  breath,  related  his  story  in 
effect  as  follows : 

"  Last  night,  father  awoke  out  of  a  sound  sleep, 
and  surprised  his  watchers,  Mr.  Ellsley  and  Mr. 
Foote,  by  speaking  in  a  different  tone  from  that  to 
which  they  had  been  lately  accustomed.  He  asked 
for  a  glass  of  water,  and  then  desired  to  know  if 
Felix  had  been  caught.  He  was  told  that  Felix 
was  safe  in  his  stall ;  when,  pressing  his  hand  to 
his  brow,  as  if  trying  to  recollect  something,  he 
said,  '  Either  I  dreamed  it,  or  else  I  had  a  fall  last 
night.  My  head  is  confused ;  but  I  believe  it  is 
something  besides  a  dream.  I  was  riding  over  the 
bridge,  by  the  grove,  just  at  sundown,  when  a  crow 
darted  down  and  flapped  his  wings  in  Felix's  eyes 
so  suddenly,  that  he  shied  in  fright  and  threvr  me 
from  the  saddle.  What  happened  afterwards  I 
can't  remember ;  only  I  have  a  faint  recollection  of 
burning  up  with  thirst,  and  dragging  myself  towards 
the  river  for  water.'  The  watchers  thought  father 


THE   MISFORTUNES   OF   BASIL   GRAY.  177 

was  raving,  and  would  not  let  him  talk.  But  in 
the  morning,  when  they  told  me  what  he  had  said, 
I  felt  a  hope  that  his  reason  had  returned.  I  was 
convinced  that  such  was  the  case,  when  I  went  to 
converse  with  him,  and  found  that  he  remembered 
nothing  of  what  took  place  during  his  delirium. 
He  did  not  inquire  for  Friend  Hawkins,  as  he  had 
called  you,  but  he  wished  to  know  if  he  had  been 
brought  home  insensible  the  evening  before.  He 
repeated  the  story  about  the  crow ;  when,  I  don't 
know  how,  I  all  at  once  remembered  the  bird  I 
partly  tamed  a  year  ago,  and  which  went  off,  we 
never  knew  where.  Then  it  came  into  my  mind 
all  about  a  saucy  crow  I  often  saw  near  the  river 
last  summer " 

"  I  remember  him  !  "  exclaimed  Basil.  "He  flew 
almost  into  my  face,  the  morning  when  I  lost  my 
money ! " 

"  It 's  the  same  !  "  cried  Henry.  "  The  thought 
flashed  across  my  mind  that  he  was  at  the  bottom 
of  all  the  mischief  which  has  been  done.  So  much 
excited  that  I  hardly  knew  what  I  did,  I  ran  down 
to  the  river.  Fortunately,  I  saw  what  I  believed 
to  be  the  same  crow  flying,  with  something  in  his 
claws,  to  the  top  of  the  old  elm,  which  stands  in  the 
field.  I  decided  at  once  on  what  ought  to  be  done. 
I  called  Williams  from  his  work,  and  we  went  to- 
gether to  cut  down  the  tree.  But  he  objected  to  this 


178  THE   MISFORTUNES   OF    BASIL   GRAY. 

•without  father's  permission ;  and,  impatient  as  I  was, 
I  had  to  wait  until  the  long  ladder  could  be  brought 
from  the  house.  Williams  went  to  the  top  of  this, 
and  then  climbed  to  the  branches.  A  few  minutes 
after,  a  perfect  shower  of  sticks,  nails  and  dirt,  fell 
to  the  ground.  Williams  was  tearing  open  the  nest. 
At  length,  when  I  was  looking  up  anxiously,  he 
shouted,  '  Look  out  for  this  ! '  and  down  came  what 
looked  to  be  a  bundle  of  rags.  I  picked  it  up  ;  it 
was  Williams'  handkerchief,  in  which  was  tied  up 
a  heap  of  bank-bills,  all  torn  and  rumpled,  and  mixed 
with  feathers  and  leaves.  And  this  is  n't  all,"  con- 
tinued Henry,  joyously.  "When  Williams  came 
down,  he  took  out  of  his  pocket  father's  watch,  with 
the  guard  and  seal  still  attached  !  " 

While  Henry,  in  relating  his  story,  was  still 
dancing  around  with  excitement,  and  while  the 
happy  couple  were  listening  to  the  joyful  news,  the 
door  of  the  prison-room  again  creaked  on  its  hinges, 
and  the  jailer  reappeared,  holding  a  paper  in  his 
hand,  "  by  virtue  of  which,"  he  said,  he  had  the 
gratification  of  "  proclaiming  Basil's  freedom." 

Mary  could  now  refrain  no  longer,  but  fell  into 
her  husband's  arms,  clasping  his  neck,  regardless  of 
the  eyes  of  Henry,  the  jailer,  and  Mr.  Kelpit,  the 
sheriff",  who  was  waiting  to  carry  the  happy  family 
home  in  his  carriage. 

And  here  our  story  properly  ends,  for  here  end 


THE   MISFORTUNES    OF    BASIL   GRAY.  179 

the  misfortunes  of  Basil  Gray.  It  would  be  a 
pleasure  for  me  to  dwell  upon  the  blissful  entrance 
of  the  little  family  into  their  beloved  cottage,  and  to 
discourse  of  the  fountains  of  happiness  which  from 
that  time  welled  up  to  calm  and  cool  their  thirsty 
hearts.  I  should  also  delight  to  describe  how  Judge 
Bradwood,  recovering  from  his  injury,  recognizing 
Basil's  honesty,  and  feeling  conscious  of  having  dealt 
hardly  by  him,  begged  that  he  would  forgive  his 
injustice,  made  him  a  present  of  Felix,  and,  volun- 
tarily cancelling  all  further  obligations  to  which  the 
young  farmer  was  held  by  the  mortgage,  became  his 
firmest  friend.  How  Mary,  patching  up  the  bank- 
notes which  had  been  recovered,  and  exercising  her 
industry  and  ingenuity  with  such  success  that  nearly* 
eighty  dollars  were  saved,  placed  the  sum  at  interest 
for  the  benefit  of  little  Mary.  How  all  the  old 
friends  of  the  Grays  renewed  their  allegiance,  while 
new  ones  awarded  Basil  the  meed  of  their  esteem, 
and  everybody  regarded  him.  as  a  sort  of  hero.  How 
the  mischievous  crow  met  with  a  tragical  fate,  by 
getting  into  a  trap  ;  and  how,  years  after,  the  noble 
Henry  loved  "  little  Mary,"  wooed,  and  won  her  for 
his  wife.  But  I  think  it  much  better,  on  the  whole, 
to  just  hint  at  these  things,  and  leave  them  to  the 
imagination  of  the  reader. 


MBS.  DALTON'S  TRIALS. 


MRS.  DALTON'S  greatest  fault  was  a  want  of  de- 
cision. It  was  very  rare  that  she  had  the  courage 
to  express  an  opinion  boldly  in  opposition  to  a  per- 
son with  whom  she  was  conversing ;  so  that  Mr. 
Dalton,  by  way  of  reproach,  used  to  call  her  his 
"little  coward." 

Mr.  Dalton  himself  was  a  man  of  great  firmness 
of  character,  and  this  weakness  of  his  wife  some- 
times exhausted  all  his  patience.  But  he  was  very 
fond  of  her,  and,  instead  of  reprimanding  her  se- 
verely, he  usually  followed  up  her  faults  on  that 
score  with  a  little  harmless  ridicule,  which  had, 
probably,  as  much  effect  as  less  playful  treatment 
might  have  had,  but  which  failed  altogether  of 
curing  her  of  her  indecision. 

Mrs.  Dalton  could  not  say  "  No  "  when  a  trades- 
man urged  her  to  purchase  an  article,  whether  she 
liked  it  or  not.  The  baker  used  to  impose  upon  her 


MRS.  DALTON'S  TRIALS.  181 

shamefully,  and  the  butcher  had  the  audacity  to 
send  her  inferior  pieces  of  meat,  and  charge  her  the 
highest  prices.  If  she  timidly  suggested  that  the 
steak  was  not  as  good  as  she  wished  to  purchase,  the 
fat  fellow  in  the  white  apron  would  politely  beg 
leave  to  convince  her  of  her  mistake,  assuring  her 
that  no  better  meat  could  anywhere  be  found  j  so 
Mrs.  Dalton  would  take  his  word,  and  the  meat,  and 
make  herself  miserable  all  the  morning  at  the 
thought  that  Mr.  D.  would  be  sure  to  find  fault  with 
his  dinner.  If  she  went  out  shopping,  she  made 
the  worst  bargains  you  could  imagine.  If  she 
thought  an  article  abominably  dear  at  the  price,  and 
timidly  hinted  the  fact,  the  smooth-tongued  sales- 
man, looking  right  into  her  cowardly  little  heart, 
would  smile  at  her  errors  of  opinion,  and  indul- 
gently give  her  leave  to  alter  her  judgment,  with 
assurance  that  the  goods  were  actually  selling  at  a 
sacrifice.  So  Mrs.  D.  would,  with  much  fluttering 
and  hesitation,  consent  to  have  the  article  sent 
home,  although  fully  convinced  that  she  would  not 
like  it,  and  half  suspecting,  all  the  time,  that  the 
salesman  knew  she  was  a  little  fool.  Then,  poor 
Mrs.  Dalton  hated  to  go  shopping!  She  was  al- 
ways sick  after  it  —  the  agitation  was  too  much  for 
her ;  and  those  gratifying  exclamations  of  friends, 
who  examined  her  purchases,  "  How  dear ! "  "I 
never  heard  of  such  imposition  !  "  "  Where  did  you 
16 


182  MRS.  DALTON'S  TRIALS. 

buy  this  stuff?"  were  sure  to  keep  her  in  a  state 
of  nervous  excitement  a  week  afterwards. 

But  the  lesson  had  no  lasting  effect ;  although 
she  had  courage  one  morning  to  tell  the  milk- 
man she  did  not  want  any  more  of  his  liquid  at  five 
cents,  and  would  not  have  it,  which  resulted  in  ob- 
taining better  milk  in  future  at  four  cents;  and 
although  she  summoned  resolution  to  send  away, 
empty-handed,  three  begging  impostors,  who  had 
been  robbing  her  from  time  immemorial ;  still  she 
found  her  old  habit  of  indecision  returning  upon 
her,  and  she  was  soon%  as  easily  persuaded  as  ever. 

At  length  came  her  greatest  trial.  Mr.  Dalton 
was  absent  from  town,  on  business,  and  she  always 
felt  less  confidence  in  herself  when  he  was  away 
than  on  ordinary  occasions.  The  butcher  took 
greater  liberties  than  ever ;  the  baker  sent  her  un- 
satisfactory loaves,  curtailed  of  their  just  propor- 
tions ;  and  old  Solomon,  a  speculator  in  "  cast-offs," 
took  that  occasion  to  come  down  upon  her  for  cer- 
tain old  boots  and  coats  which  she  knew  Mr.  D.  ex- 
pected to  wear  a  great  deal  more  before  throwing 
them  aside,  but  which  Solomon  would  prevail  upon 
her  to  dispose  of  for  a  few  coppers.  These  money- 
loving  rascals  had  some  fear  of  Mr.  Dalton's  thun- 
.der  when  he  was  at  home,  for  they  had  heard  it 
more  than  once ;  so  they  were  sharp  at  taking 
advantage  of  his  absence. 


MRS.  DALTON'S  TRIALS.  183 

But  I  spoke  of  Mrs.  Dalton's  greatest  trial. 

As  ill  luck  would  have  it,  Mrs.  D.'s  domestic 
left  her  on  the  morning  after  her  husband  went  out 
of  town.  The  girl  did  not  .leave  because  she  was 
dissatisfied  with  anything ;  for  it  was  a  well-known 
fact,  Mrs.  D.'s  domestics  had,  time  out  of  mind, 
been  in  the  habit  of  doing  exactly  what  they  pleased, 
except  when  they  crossed  Mr.  D.'s  arrangements. 
But  Sarah  left  for  some  unknown  cause,  without 
giving  warning,  and  Mrs.  D.  found  herself  without 
any  help. 

Mrs.  D.'s  family  being  small,  and  Mr.  D.'s  in- 
xrnie  not  large,  they  usually  kept  only  one  girl ;  and 
it  was  now  quite  important  that  Sarah's  place  should 
be  filled  immediately. 

"  I  know  a  girl  has  lived  with  Mrs.  Burbank," 
said  Sarah,  condescending  to  pity  Mrs.  D.'s  distress. 
"  She  wants  a  place  now ',  and,  if  you  like,  I  can 
speak  to  her  about  you." 

"  I  wish  you  would,  Sarah,"  said  Mrs.  D. ;  "  send 
her  to-day,  if  possible." 

Sarah  kept  her  promise,  and  before  noon  a  large, 
bony  Irish  girl,  neatly  dressed,  and  with  the  air  of  a 
person  who  had  seen  a  great  deal  of  the  world,  and 
felt  her  own  importance  in  it,  made  her  appearance. 

"  Yc  're  wantin'  a  hilp,  I  undherstand,"  said  the 
girl,  with  a  rich  brogue. 


>  ALTON'S  TUIALS. 


"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Dalton.  "  Are  you  the  girl 
Sarah  spoke  to  me  about  ?  " 

"  I  am  that  same  ;  she  sed  ye  wanted  a  hilp,  so  I 
coom'd  in  to  see  yez,  though  it  's  my  rule  to  let 
people  coom  to  me.  What  do  yez  ixpect  yer  hilp  to 
do?" 

Mrs.  D.  named  the  different  branches  of  domestic 
usefulness  in  which  she  desired  her  "  hilp  "  to  be 
proficient,  and  which  Miss  Flannigan  —  as  she  called 
herself  —  declared  to  be  within  the  range  of  her 
capacity.  Miss  Flannigan's  wages  were  then  con- 
sidered, that  personage  demanding  at  least  one- 
third  more  than  Mrs.  D.  had  ever  paid. 

"  We  can't  afford  as  much  as  that,"  said  she. 

"  An'  it  's  very  poor  ye  must  be,  shure,  if  ye  can't 
afford  to  let  a  person  live.  If  ye  call  that  too  much, 
I  don't  know  what  ye  call  too  little.  It  's  too  hard 
ye  are,  inthirely,  if  ye  can't  allow  a  hilp  as  much  as 
she  earns." 

Mrs.  D.  tried  to  summon  sufficient  courage  to  say 
that  if  Miss  Flannigan  could  not  engage  her  services 
on  reasonable  terms  she  was  at  liberty  to  depart, 
but  Miss  Flannigan's  forbidding  aspect  overawed 
her.  "  I  can  take  her  on  trial,"  thought  she, 
excusing  herself  for  suffering  the  imposition  on 
the  score  of  immediate  necessity.  "  Then,  when 
Mr.  Dalton  returns,  we  can  dismiss  her,  if  we  like." 


MRS.  DALTON 's  TRIALS.  185 

So  Miss  Flannigan"  was  taken  on  trial,  and  that 
day  her  services  began. 

It  took  Mrs.  D.  a  good  part  of  the  day  to  show 
Miss  Flannigan  what  to  do,  and  how  her  work  was 
to  be  done.  But  she  was  remarkably  perverse ;  she 
had  a  way  of  doing  things  herself,  and  Mrs.  Dalton 
was  not  just  the  sort  of  person  to  convince  her  that 
her  own  opinions  were  not  always  the  best.  Miss 
Flannigan  appeared  strongly  desirous  of  having  her 
own  way  —  and  she  had  it. 

Considering  Flannigan  a  very  long  and  awkward 
•word  to  speak,  —  too  coarse  without  the  Miss,  and 
too  formal  with  it,  —  Mrs.  D.  wished  to  know  the 
new  domestic's  given  name. 

"  Shure,  that  's  uv  no  consiquince,"  said  the  girl. 
"  Ye  can  call  me  Flannigan  !  " 

"  Well,  Flannigan,"  said  Mrs.  D.,  in  a  timid  voice, 
"  I  told  you  to  set  the  table  for  four,  and  you  have 
set  it  for  five" 

To  this  mild  suggestion  Flannigan  gave  no  manner 
of  heed.  Mrs.  Dalton,  already  beginning  to  fear  her 
displeasure,  chose  to  remove  the  extra  plate  herself, 
rather  than  speak  again.  Imagine,  then,  her  aston- 
ishment, when  Flannigan  coolly  took  the  plate  and 
put  it  back  in  its  place  on  the  table.  It  was  some 
time  before  she  could  speak ;  but  at  length  she 
found  courage  to  say : 

"  You  must  have  misunderstood  me.  I  said  set 
16* 


186  MRS.    DALTOX'S   TRIALS. 

the  table  for  four.  There  are.  only  four  of  us  to  sit 
down  when  Mr.  Dalton  is  away." 

"  Shure  I  undherstand  ye,"  replied  Flannigan; 
but  the  plate  remained. 

Mrs.  Dalton  came  very  near  finding  courage  to 
bo  angry,  at  this  instance  of  cool  perverseness ;  but 
Flannigan  looked  so  very  stern  and  authoritative, 
that  the  poor  woman  thought  best  to  hold  her  peace. 

"  I  said  you  need  not  put  the  cakes  on  the  grid- 
dle until  tea  is  ready  !  "  cried  Mrs.  D.,  with  more 
than  usual  energy,  as  she  heard  the  unmistakable 
hissing  of  the  batter.  "  Did  you  hear  ?  " 

"  Shure,  I  'm  not  thick  uv  hearin',"  muttered 
Flannigan,  coolly  pouring  another  ladleful  over  the 
griddle. 

Mrs.  Dalton  looked  through  the  kitchen  door, 
and  saw  her.  No  impudence  had  ever  so  completely 
overwhelmed  her  as  that  of  the  perverse  Flannigan. 
She  could  not  say  a  word. 

"  The  wretch  !  "  thought  Mrs.  Dalton  ;  "I  will 
send  her  away  in  the  morning  !  " 

But  as  yet  Mrs.  D.  had  only  a  very  faint  concep- 
tion of  Flannigan's  coolness.  When  the  whole 
truth  rushed  upon  her  conviction,  she  could  scarcely 
credit  her  senses.  It  was  when  the  design  of  the 
fifth  plate  on  the  table  became  evident.  Flannigan 
placed  a  fifth  chair  before  it.  Mrs.  D.  trembled ; 
she  had  taken  her  accustomed  place —  the.  children 


MRS.  DALTON'S  TRIALS.  187 

were  in  theirs  —  and  Flannigan  occupied  the  fifth 
chair ! 

Mrs.  D.  turned  very  pale. 

"  I  did  not  intend  — "  she  murmured,  in  an  agi- 
tated voice.  "  We  want  a  domestic  to  wait  upon 
us  at  table  —  not  to  eat  with  us." 

"  What  's  the  objickshun,  if  I  kin  wait  on  ye 
jist  as  well  ?  "  said  Flannigan. 

"  But  you  can't ;  we  want  you  to  cook  the  cakes 
while  we  are  at  table,  so  that  we  can  have  them 
•  hot—'' 

"  An'  have  n't  I  cooked  'em  already  ?  "  demanded 
Flannigan.  "  If  ye  expect  me  to  take  'em  right  off 
the  griddle  an'  put  'em  into  yer  mouths  for  ye,  it  's 
expectin'  too  much  intirely.  An'  then,  if  ye  think 
ye  are  too  good  to  sit  at  de  same  table  wid  me,  ye  'ro 
too  good  fur  me  to  work  for,  —  that  's  all." 

What  an  excellent  time  it  was  for  Mrs.  Dalton  to 
say,  "  if  she  did  not  like  her  service,  she  could  de- 
part as  soon  as  she  liked  "  !  But  Mrs.  D.  had  not 
the  courage.  She  only  wished  Mr.  D.  was  there ; 
and  concluded  that,  as  nobody  but  her  own  family 
was  present,  she  would  allow  the  encroachment  for 
once. 

On  the  following  day  Flannigan  sat  at  table  with 
the  family  at  breakfast,  dinner  and  tea,  and  had  her 
own  way  in  everything.  Mrs.  D.  was  miserable. 


188  MRS.  D ALTON'S  TRIALS. 

"  Thank  Heaven,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  Mr.  D.  ia 
coming  home  to-morrow." 

But  then  she  dreaded  to  have  him  come.  How 
could  she  confess  her  weakness  to  him  ?  In  what  a 
rage  he  would  be,  to  find  her  governed  by  an  Irish 
domestic,  who,  because  Sarah  had  told  her  she  could 
do  as  she  liked  with  Mrs.  D.,  and  because  some 
families  she  had  lived  in  had  allowed  her  to  sit  at 
table  with  them,  claimed  this  as  a  right !  Mrs.  D. 
.tried  to  summon  enough  courage  to  send  Flannigan 
away  before  her  husband  came  home,  but  she  could 
not ;  and  Mr.  D.  arrived  while  Flannigan  held  un- 
disputed sway. 

It  is  probable  that  Mrs.  Dalton  would  have  re- 
quested him  to  send  Flannigan  away,  without  telling 
him  all,  had  not  one  of  the  children  preceded  her, 
and  drawn  Flannigan's  character  to  the  life. 

"  She  sits  down  with  us  at  the  table,  and  won't 
mind  a  word  mamma  says,"  exclaimed  the  child. 

Mr.  Dalton  was  very  angry;  he  had  never  been 
so  severe  with  his  wife  before.  She  shed  an  abun- 
dance of  tears,  and  promised  not  to  be  so  weak  any 
more. 

"  You  are  sure  you  will  not  ? "  said  Mr.  D. 

Mrs.  Dalton  was  certain  she  would  be  more 
firm. 

"  Very  well,"  said  her  husband.     "  I  am  glad 


MRS.  DALTON'S  TRIALS.  189 

of  it.  I  shall  expect,  then,  you  will  send  Flannigan 
away,  without  any  interference  on  my  part." 

"I?" 

"  To  be  sure  —  sinee  you  are  going  to  be  more 
firm  !  " 

"  0,  I  never  could  do  that,  she  's  such  an  awful 
creature  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Dalton. 

"  0,  then  your  promise  does  not  amount  to  any- 
thing," replied  her  husband.  "  Very  well ;  I  shall 
not  send  her  away,  nor  will  I  sit  down  at  the  table 
so  long  as  she  remains  in  the  house.  Not  that  I 
object  to  eating  with  an  Irish  girl ;  but,  if  you  hire 
persons  to  serve  you,  it  is  their  business  to  do  it, 
and  keep  in  their  places." 

Mrs.  Dalton  was  in  great  perturbation.  She 
knew  that  what  Mr.  D.  said  he  meant ;  and  that 
there  was  no  way  for  her  to  do,  but  to  send  away 
Flannigan.  Much  as  she  dreaded  the  latter,  she 
dreaded  her  husband's  displeasure  more;  and  this 
nerved  her  to  the  task. 

"  Flannigan,"  said  she,  with  her  coward  little 
heart  in  her  throat. 

"  What 's  wantin'  ?  " 

"  I  think,"  pursued  Mrs.  D.,  with  a  long  breath, 
"  I  can  dispense  with  your  services." 

Flannigan  stood  aghast. 

"  You  can  go,"  added  Mrs.  Dalton. 

"  Go,  Ma'am !     Which  d'  ye  mane  ?  " 


190  MRS.  DALTON'S  TRIALS. 

Mrs.  D.  plucked  up  all  her  courage.  She  was 
determined  that  Mr.  Dalton  should  know  that  she 
could  be  severe  sometimes.  So  she  said,  loud  enough 
for  him  to  hear,  in  the  next  room  : 

"  You  can  leave.  Don't  do  any  more ;  you  do 
not  suit  me.  That  is  what  I  mean." 

Flannigan  was  brought  down  from  her  soaring 
height  in  an  instant.  As  long  as  Mrs.  Dalton  was 
weak,  she  was  lofty;  now  that  the  former  ex- 
hibited a  little  true  firmness,  she  had  not  a  word  to 
say.  She  laid  down  a  dipper  she  was  holding  in 
her  hands,  without  a  word,  put  on  her  bonnet,  and 
went  up  stairs  to  pack  her  trunk.  In  ten  minutes 
she  was  gone,  never  to  return. 

"  You  little  tiger  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Dalton,  rally- 
ing his  wife  ;  "  I  had  no  idea  you  could  be  so  sav- 
age !  You  have  conquered  Flannigan,  and  driven 
her  from  the  field !  Now,  it  was  not  such  a  terrible 
thing,  after  all,  was  it  ?  And  why  can't  you  always 
do  a  just  thing  with  as  much  courage  ?  " 

A  just  thing  —  there  was  the  secret  of  it !  Mrs. 
Dalton  armed  herself  with  that  thought,  and  deter- 
mined never  to  hesitate  again  to  say  or  do  anything 
which  justice  to  herself  or  others  required.  She 
has  met  with  many  trials  since,  and  she  is  sometimes 
weak ;  but  she  never  suffers  herself  to  give  way  to 
her  fault,  as  she  did  in  her  dealings  with  Flaunigan 


LILY    BELL. 

AN  OLD  HOUSE-KEEPER'S  TALE. 


I  NEVER  saw  so  sweet  and  lovely  a  child  as  Lilias 
Boll,  or  Little  Lily,  as  she  was  always  called.  She 
was  the  idol  of  our  village  ;  and  well  do  I  remem- 
ber how  often  I  —  then  just  entering  my  teens  — 
used  to  arrive  late  at  school,  having  wandered  out 
of  my  way  to  go  down  the  street  in  which  she  lived, 
and  hold  her  only  a  minute  in  my  arms. 

How  proud  Mrs.  Bell  was  of  her  darling  !  How 
happy  it  made  the  mother's  heart,  to  know  how 
dearly  her  idol  was  beloved  !  I  was  a  great  favorite 
with  Mrs.  Bell,  for  no  other  reason,  I  suppose,  than 
because  I  worshipped  her  child.  She  loved  every- 
body thut  loved  Lily. 

Picture  to  yourself,  dear  reader,  a  fresh  and  happy 
face,  a  light,  transparent  complexion,  cheeks  like 
blooming  roses,  blue  eyes  sparkling  with  gladness, 


192 


lips  like  an  opening  rosebud,  a  white  neck  gaining 
through  a  flood  of  flowing  auburn  curls,  dimpled 
arms,  and  the  prettiest  plump  little  hands  in  the 
world  ;  —  also,  imagine  the  clearest,  most  musical, 
laughing  silver  voice,  which  ever  rung  with  the  joy 
of  a  childish  heart,  and  you  may  have  something 
like  a  just  idea  of  little  Lily  Bell. 

And  such  a  sweet  disposition  as  she  had  !  Her 
soul  was  all  sunshine.  She  seemed  made  to  love, 
and  to  be  loved,  —  to  be  happy,  and  to  make  happy 
the  hearts  of  others.  Ah  !  how  often  have  I  watched 
her,  smiling  sweetly  in  her  sleep,  until  my  heart  has 
ached  with  loving  her  ! 

But  a  cloud  arises  between  me  and  this  bright 
vision  of  my  youth.  A  shadow  of  sorrow  dims  the 
picture  of  happy  innocence  which  "  hangs  in  Mem- 
ory's hall ;"  and  it  is  with  a  sigh  that  I  recall  the 
sunny  smiles  of  little  Lily  Bell. 

But  this  is  not  telling  my  story. 

Lily  was  an  only  child.  The  family  of  the  Bells 
was  small ;  consisting  only  of  the  child's  parents  and 
a  maiden  sister  of  Mr.  Bell,  who  lived  on  the  most 
friendly  terms  with  her  relatives.  Of  these  three 
little  Lily  was  the  worshipped  idol. 

As  I  remember  Miss  Lucinda  Bell,  she  was  not  a 
very  agreeable  person.  Yet  she  had  a  good  heart, 
and  those  who  knew  her  best  esteemed  her  most 


LILY   BELL.  193 

highly.  She  had  a  thin,  unpleasant  face,  on  which 
time  had  recorded  about  forty  •winters, 

Some  people  wondered  how  Mrs.  Bell  could  "  get 
along"  with  the  spinster  living  under  the  same 
roof.  I  think  the  case  was  plain.  Lucinda  adored 
little  Lily. 

Certain  it  is,  the  old  maid  had  her  way  in  every- 
thing, and  everybody  appeared  satisfied.  There  was 
also  a  reason  for  this.  Mr.  Bell  had,  by  a  series  of 
misfortunes,  lost  nearly  all  his  property,  and  —  his 
sister  was  rich.  She  gave  her  brother's  family  a 
home  in  her  own  house ;  and  it  was  generally  under- 
stood that  little  Lily  was  to  be  her  heiress. 

In  this  way  the  Bells  lived  very  comfortably,  and 
very  peaceably,  it  is  to  be  presumed.  There  were 
no  disputes.  The  most  perfect  happiness  and  har- 
mony prevailed,  little  Lily  being  the  golden  link 
which  united  all  hearts. 

Such  was  the  azure  sky  which  smiled  above  our 
darling,  when  a  black  cloud  arose  into  it,  with  shad- 
owy wings,  which  darkened  all  the  flowers  growing 
in  her  path. 

I  have  never  been  able  to  ascertain  precisely  how 
that  chilling  cloud  took  its  origin.  It  burst  forth  in 
the  shape  of  &  family  feud.  The  deadly  displeasure 
of  the  spinster  had  been  awakened  by  her  brother's 
family.  Her  heart  congealed  into  ice.  Her  woman's 
will  towered  up  like  a  mountain  of  adamant.  Even 
17 


194 


little  Lily  felt  the  withering  frowns  of  her  Aunl 
Lucinda's  mortal  anger. 

People  said  the  spinster  had  accidentally  over- 
heard a  conversation  between  Lucius  and  his  wife, 
in  which  they  had  spoken  of  Lily's  future,  and 
alluded  to  the  prospect  of  her  inheriting  the  prop- 
erty of  her  aunt. 

This  was  not  all.  Lucius,  it  was  said,  spoke  of 
the  inheritance  as  a  certainty,  provided  Lucinda 
never  married ;  and  his  wife  had  thereupon  laughed 
at  what  she  termed  the  ludicrousness  of  the  idea, 
that  the  spinster,  with  her  old-maid  face,  would 
ever  find  a  husband. 

No  woman  is  so  plain,  or  so  utterly  devoid  of  van- 
ity, that  ridicule  of  her  personal  appearance  will  not 
find  a  tender  spot  in  her  heart.  Nothing  else  could 
her  sister-in-law  have  said  to  give  Lucinda  such 
mortal  offence. 

For  a  few  minutes  that  peaceful  home  seemed 
invaded  by  a  tempest.  Laura's  apologies,  —  her 
pleading  for  pardon,  her  assurance  that  she  had 
meant  no  harm,  —  were  all  of  no  avail.  Lucius 
attempted  in  vain  to  calm  the  storm.  Even  little 
Lily's  tears  and  terror  had  no  power  to  soften  the 
sternness  of  Aunt  Lucinda's  wrath. 

The  result  was,  that  in  a  little  while  Lucius  left 
the  house,  and,  with  a  pale  brow  and  compressed 


195 


lips,  walked  hastily  to  the  office  of  Mr.  Lynde,  one 
of  the  wealthiest  men  in  the  village. 

Mr.  Bell  was  so  fortunate  as  to  find  the  land- 
holder's confidential  clerk  in  the  counting-room,  and, 
without  ceremony,  proposed  the  business  on  which 
he  had  called. 

Mr.  Bell  desired  to  take  a  new  house,  which  Mr. 
Lynde  had  just  completed,  situated  within  a  stone's 
throw  of  that  which  the  Bells  then  occupied,  belong- 
ing to  the  spinster. 

The  new  house  was  a  beautiful  village  cottage, 
constructed  in  what  is  termed,  in  country  places, 
the  Gothic  style,  and  painted  brown  ;  and  although 
the  architect  had  taken  wide  liberties  with  the  style 
in  question,  it  was  nevertheless  an  attractive  resi- 
dence. Mr.  Bell  had  frequently  said,  in  jest,  that 
when  he  quarrelled  with  his  sister  —  who  ever  sup- 
posed such  a  thing  would  happen  in  the  course  of 
human  events  ?  —  he  should  live  in  that  cottage ; 
and  now  his  prediction,  made  in  play,  was  destined 
to  be  realized  in  earnest. 

The  lease  was  made  out  that  very  day;  and, 
although  informed  that  the  walls  of  the  new  house 
must  still  be  damp,  Lucius  immediately  made  pre- 
parations for  moving  his  family. 

Lucinda,  after  the  explosion  of  her  indignation, 
called  a  carriage,  and,  packing  up  a  few  things, 
solemnly  declared  that  she  would  never  again  sleep 


196  LILY   BELL. 

under  the  same  roof  with  her  ungrateful  relatives. 
She  was  now  gone  ;  and  Lily's  parents,  full  of  grief 
and  trouble,  made  ready  to  depart  from  the  house 
of  her  whom  they  had  offended. 

I  remember  well  how  everybody  was  astonished 
when  Mr.  Bell's  furniture  was  seen  going  into  the 
Gothic  cottage.  That  very  evening  the  whole  village 
rang  with  the  incredible  rumor.  I  was  one  of  a  num- 
ber of  little  Lily's  devotees  who  passed  through  the 
street  expressly  to  see  whether  the  report  had  any 
foundation.  It  was  too  true.  The  Bells  were  mov- 
ing. The  lily  was  to  be  transplanted  to  another  bed. 
On  the  following  day  Lucius'  family  became  estab- 
lished in  their  new  house,  and  the  inexorable  aunt 
returned,  in  stately  loneliness,  to  her  hollow,  gloomy 
habitation. 

I  have  often  pictured  to  myself  the  sensations  of 
Lucinda  at  that  time.  Methinks  I  see  her  now, 
passing  through  the  low  gate,  and  along  the  flower- 
bordered  path  which  leads  to  the  vine-shaded  door. 
The  summer  noontide  sun  shines  brightly,  but  its 
life-diffusing  light  is  not  for  her !  The  breezes  from 
the  verdant  hills  and  the  forest's  cooling  shade  play 
with  the  ancient  ribbons  on  her  bonnet  (who,  in  all 
our  village,  would  not  have  known  that  bonnet  a 
mile  off,  among  a  hundred  ?),  and  with  the  scanty 
curl  which  always  hangs  in  just  such  a  position  on 
the  old  maid's  cheek ;  but  no  breezes  can  cool  tho 


197 


fever  of  her  breast.  Alas !  she  knows  too  well  what 
a  hollow,  dreary  house  she  is  entering.  She  had 
thought  she  could  return  with  the  same  heart  of 
steel  which  prompted  her  to  leave  her  own  roof; 
and  she  could,  perhaps,  did  she  not  at  this  moment 
remember  that  always  before,  when  she  has  been 
away,  the  joyous  laugh  and  sunny  face  of  little  Lily 
has  welcomed  her  back  gladly  at  the  door.  There 
is  no  Lily  there  now ;  no  little  arms  outstretched,  no 
ready  kiss ;  and  to  the  heart  of  the  old  maid  all  the 
earth  is  dark,  and  hollow,  and  cold. 

She  passes  beneath  the  shady  grape-vine  screen, 
and  across  the  threshold.  Only  the  face  of  the 
domestic  meets  her  eye.  What  a  chilling,  unlova- 
ble face  Lucinda,  for  the  first  time,  discovers  it  to 
be !  She  hates  the  domestic,  whom  she  never  hated 
before. 

"  They  are  gone,"  says  the  menial,  thinking  to 
dispel  that  ominous  frown  by  pleasant  news. 

What  a  mistake  !  What  a  look  of  rage  and 
hatred  answers  the  ill-timed  words !  The  discon- 
certed girl  glides  timidly  away.  The  old  maid  is 
alone. 

And  now  sorrow  takes  the  place  of  anger.  Lu- 
cinda throws  her  bonnet  on  one  chair,  with  a  des- 
perate gesture,  and  sinks  with  clasped  hands  on 
another.  Yesterday  there  was  a  bureau  in  this 
vacant  corner.  It  was  Laura's  bureau.  A  hcart- 
17* 


198 


rending  sigh  shakes  the  thin  form  of  the  spinster. 
Glancing  at  the  wall,  she  notes  the  light  square 
space  that  marks  the  spot  from  which  her  brother's 
picture  was  lately  removed.  A  tear  glistens  in 
her  eye.  Here,  here  in  the  ceiling  by  the  door,  is 
the  low  nail  where  little  Lily's  bonnet  always  hung, 
when  Lily  was  not  at  play  out  of  doors.  Lily  could 
just  touch  that  nail  by  standing  on  her  toes.  Lu- 
cinda  remembers  the  darling's  childish  glee  when 
for  the  first  time  she  reached  it  with  her  tiny  fingers. 
There  is  no  bonnet  there  now  !  The  old  maid's  lips 
quiver.  She  turns  quickly,  and  looks  for  the  beau- 
tiful child-picture,  that  had  its  place  on  the  wall 
behind  her.  Instead  of  Lily's  portrait,  she  sees  a 
square,  white  spot  on  the  paper.  The  old  maid  ia 


The  domestic  looks  through  the  aperture' of  a  door 
which  she  has  opened  softly,  and  sees  her  mistress 
sitting  there,  her  face  covered  with  her  hands,  and 
her  hands  covered  with  streaming  tears.  She  is 
afraid  to  speak ;  and,  closing  the  door  softly  as  she 
opened  it,  the  girl  retires.  Half  an  hour  after,  the 
door  opens  again.  You  could  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
domestic's  face  behind  its  shadow.  With  a  feeling 
of  awe,  she  sees  that  her  mistress  has  not  stirred. 
There  she  sits,  her  hands  clasped  over  her  face,  and 
still  wet  with  tears.  The  silence  almost  frightens 
the  poor  girl ;  but  the  silence  is  not  half  so  terri- 


LILY   BELL.  199 

tying  as  the  grief-burthened  sigh  which  suddenly 
swells  up  from  the  death-like  stillness  of  the  spin- 
ster's bosom,  and  fills  all  the  chamber  like  the  pres- 
ence of  a  ghost. 

The  face  disappears,  and  the  door  closes  again. 
After  the  lapse  of  another  half-hour,  it  reopens,  and 
you  might  see  a  steaming  urn  and  a  white  cloth  laid 
on  the  table  beyond. 

"  Tea  is  ready." 

The  girl  speaks  boldly,  for  Lucinda  has  lifted  her 
hands  from  her  face,  and  her  eyes  are  dry,  and  she 
is  gazing  steadfastly  at  the  carpet.  She  has  con- 
quered her  weakness.  She  will  be  strong  now,  she 
thinks  ;  and,  as  her  resentment  is  just,  so  shall  her 
resolution  be  firm. 

"Tea?  — of  course." 

Lucinda  knows  no  reason  why  she  should  not  have 
a  good  appetite.  She  cheerfully  follows  Delia.  Yes, 
she  will  do  justice  to  the  toast. 

Her  resolution  fails  her.  There  are  places  vacant 
which  were  never  vacant  before,  when  Lucinda  sat 
down  at  that  table.  Little  Lily's  high  chair,  — 
where  is  it  ?  Ah,  Lucinda  !  thy  heart  throbs  hu- 
manly yet !  Go  back  —  go  kick  into  thy  chamber, 
and  let  thy  bitter  tears  flow  freely  ! 

That  evening  Lucinda  sat  in  the  deepening  twi- 
light, musing  sadly.  An  hour  passed  ;  night  reigned 
silently,  the  moon  shone  through  the  casement,  and 


200  LILY   BELL. 

she  sat  there  still.  Then  came  a  feeble  rap  at  the 
door.  The  spinster  had  sent  Delia  away,  that  she 
might  be  alone ;  so  she  herself  arose  to  admit  the 
visitor.  On  the  steps,  spotted  with  the  white  moon- 
light and  with  the  quivering  shadows  of  the  leafy 
grape-vine  arch,  stood  a  young  woman,  —  a  stranger, 

—  holding  before  her  a  broad,  square  object,  which 
ehe  extended  towards  Lucinda. 

"  What  is  this  ?  " 

"  Please,  ma'am,  a  picture  Mrs.  Bell  says  was 
taken  away  by  mistake,  as  it  belongs  to  you, 
ma'am." 

"  A  picture  ? " 

"  Yes,  ma'am  ;  little  Lily's." 

Lucinda  seized  it  eagerly. 

"  Are  you  Mrs.  Bell's  domestic  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  ma'am ;  and  Mrs.  Bell  sends  her  compli- 
ments, and  would  like  to  have  you  call,  if  so  be  it 's 
convenient." 

Lucinda  coughed ;  —  after  a  pause,  she  inquired, 

"  How  is  little  Lily  ?  " 

"  Please,  ma'am,  she  's  took  a  bad  cold  going  into 
the  new  house ;  and  it 's  very  bad  for  the  poor  thing, 

—  them  damp  walls  is,  ma'am." 

Lucinda  carried  the  picture  into  her  chamber. 
She  had  not  forgotten  that  it  was  her  own  money 
that  had  paid  for  it,  and  that  Lucius  had  acknowl- 
edged it  to  be  her  property ;  but  how  little  could 


LILY   BELL.  201 

she  have  expected  it  would  be  yielded  to  her,  now 
that  a  separation  had  taken  place  ?  She  felt  grate- 
ful, as  she  gazed  upon  the  beloved  face,  and  once 
more  her  heart  yearned  toward  the  family  of  her 
idol ;  but  the  fatal  words  Laura  had  spoken,  and 
her  husband's  laugh,  were  remembered,  and  their 
sting  was  felt.  No  !  no !  she  could  not  forgive  them  ! 
They  loved  her  not!  It  was  only  her  property 
they  desired,  and  that 

The  spinster  would,  at  that  moment,  have  set  fire 
to  her  own  house,  had  she  thought  her  ungrateful 
relatives  would  ever  enjoy  its  shelter  again. 

On  the  following  morning,  Lucinda,  haggard  with 
sleeplessness  and  grief,  sat  down  at  the  breakfast- 
table  alone.  Instead  of  eating,  however,  she  only 
sighed,  and  sipped  a  little  tea  (Lucinda  abhorred 
coffee),  and  looked  dreamily  at  the  cloth. 

"  Delia,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  What,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  Do  you  know  Mrs.  Bell's  domestic  ? " 

"  Yes,  ma'am  ;  Susan  King." 

"  Well,  Delia,  if  you  see  her  to-day,"  said  Lu- 
cinda, "  you  may  ask  how  little  Lily  is ;  but  you 
need  not  say  I  wished  to  know." 

Delia  understood  her  mistress ;  and,  anxious  to 
please  her,  —  for  nothing  Delia  dreaded  like  Lu- 
cinda's  frowns,  —  she  managed  to  see  Susan  King 
that  very  morning. 


202  LILT   BELL. 

The  spinster  sat  in  her  vacant  room,  where  Lily'a 
picture  once  more  hung  in  its  place ;  and  the  sun 
shone  through  the  casement  and  through  the  arch 
of  vines  above  the  door,  and  joyous  birds  sang  mer- 
rily without ;  but  to  Lucirida  all  was  gloomy  and 
lonely  within.  Her  hand  had  fallen  listlessly  upon 
her  sewing,  and  she  was  gazing  vacantly  at  the  sun- 
shine on  the  floor,  when  Delia  entered. 

"  Little  Lily  is  quite  sick,  this  morning,  ma'am ; 
and  Susan  King  says  that  Mrs.  Bell  says  that  the 
doctor  says " 

"  Have  they  called  the  doctor  ?  "  interrupted  Lu- 
cinda,  with  a  look  of  anguish. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  —  Dr.  Sawyer ;  and  he  thinks  Lily 
will  get  along,  if  they  're  keerful  of  her ;  and  it 
was  a  very  bad  thing,  he  says,  going  into  that  house 
when  the  walls  was  damp." 

The  old  maid  uttered  a  sharp  cry  of  pain. 

"  Shall  I  get  you  the  camfer,  ma'am  ? "  asked 
Delia ;  "  you  are  looking  pale  this  morning,  ma'am." 

"  Go  to  your  work  !  "  said  Lucinda,  sternly. 

Lucinda  wished  to  be  alone ;  but  scarce  was  Delia 
gone  when  a  village  gossip  entered.  Mrs.  Smith 
was  overflowing  with  rumors,  surmises,  sympathy, 
and  scandal.  She  thought  Miss  Bell  had  been 
shamefully  insulted  by  Mrs.  Bell ;  she  considered 
both  Lucius  and  his  wife  ungrateful  wretches ;  and 
her  opinion  of  them  was  nothing  new,  either ;  for 


LILY   BELL.  203 

she  could  have  told  Lucinda  long  ago  "  how  it 
would  turn  out."  This  was  not  all.  Mrs.  Smith 
could  gratify  her  friend  by  relating  remarks  some- 
body had  heard  somebody  say  Laura  had  made, 
touching  certain  weak  points  in  Lucinda's  character. 
even  when  she  —  Laura  —  was  eating  her  —  Lu- 
cinda's —  bread. 

All  the  old  maid's  resentment  was  revived.  Mrs. 
Smith's  apparent  sympathy  prepared  her  ear  for  the 
scandal ;  and  the  scandal  stung  her  into  fury.  Ah  ! 
poor  Laura  Bell !  how  was  thy  character  torn  into 
shreds  and  tatters  by  her  whom  thou  hadst  offended, 
albeit  unintentionally,  and  by  her  who,  even  then, 
was  as  much  thy  friend  as  the  friend  of  her  upon 
whose  weakness  she  was  playing ! 

Mrs.  Smith  accepted  Lucinda's  urgent  invitation 
to  dine  with  her,  and  they  parted  sworn  friends. 
Lucinda  had  never  liked  Mrs.  Smith  so  well ;  but  I 
imagine  she  would  have  suffered  a  violent  change  of 
sentiment,  had  she  known  that,  after  dining  with 
her,  the  gossip  drank  tea  with  Laura,  and  repeated 
to  the  latter  the  worst  things  her  sister-in-law  had 
said  of  her,  exaggerating  facts,  and  even  fabricating 
falsehoods,  for  her  purpose. 

But,  although  Mrs.  Smith's  sympathies  were  as 
much  with  Laura  as  they  had  been  with  Lucinda, 
she  was  not  so  successful  in  provoking  the  young 
woman's  ire.  Laura  thought  it  natural  Lucinda 


204 


should  be  bitter  against  her,  and  she  forgave  the 
spinster  in  her  heart.  Besides,  little  Lily  was  ill, 
and  how  could  there  be  room  in  the  mother's  breast 
for  anything  but  anxiety  and  sorrow  ? 

A  cry  of  distress  seemed  to  run  through  the  vil- 
lage with  the  rumor  of  little  Lily's  -illness.  The 
Gothic  cottage  was  thronged  with  anxious  inquirers 
after  the  darling's  health.  I  was  there  twice  a  day, 
at  least;  everybody  went  there,  except  Lucinda. 
Sympathy  with  Laura's  affliction  turned  public  opin- 
ion very  much  against  her  sister-in-law,  who  was 
ridiculed,  hated,  and  condemned.  Even  I,  when  the 
darling's  cough  smote  upon  my  ear,  felt  wickedly 
inclined  towards  her  "  cruel  aunt,"  and  bitterly 
exclaimed  against  her  conduct. 

And  it  was  indeed  piteous  to  see  how  the  young 
and  happy  creature  was  changed.  Her  joyous 
laugh  rang  out  no  more ;  there  was  no  longer  the 
rosy  glow  of  healthful  life  upon  her  cheek;  her 
sweet  eyes  sparkled  no  more  with  innocent  mirth. 
Yet  she  never  complained.  0  !  it  was  melancholy 
to  see  how  the  young,  warm-hearted  child  endeav- 
ored to  seem  cheerful,  smiling  with  her  pale  face 
and  sad  blue  eyes. 

Well,  —  I  must  pass  over  in  silence  the  days  and 
weeks  of  anguish  we  suffered,  as  Lily  faded, — 
faded,  —  growing  worse  and  worse,  as  the  summer 
sun  sank  in  the  southern  sky.  We  had  hoped  she 


205 


would  be  better  soon ;  we  had  firmly  believed  she 
would  recover;  for  we  would  not  think  that  so  much 
beauty  and  innocence  could  wither  like  an  opening 
rosebud  stung  by  cruel  frosts  —  wither  and  die ! 

But,  at  the  approach  of  the  melancholy  Autumn, 
with  its  hazy  skies,  brown  fields,  and  trees  gor- 
geously arrayed  in  gleaming  crimson  and  gold, 
then  our  hearts  fluctuated  daily  between  warm  hopes 
and  chilling  fears,  like  the  alternate  heat  and  cold 
of  the  autumnal  noons  and  nights. 

One  mild  October  day  little  Lily  was  better  than 
she  had  been  for  a  week ;  and,  as  she  wished  to  look 
out  upon  the  fading  earth,  Laura  buried  her  in  pil- 
lows, and  drew  her  arm-chair  near  the  window, 
where  she  could  feel  the  sunshine  on  her  pale  brow. 

Then  Laura,  with  her  heart  all  torn  and  bleeding 
with  anguish,  bent  over  her,  while  her  tears  dropped 
warm  and  fast  upon  her  darling's  face. 

"  Don't  cry,  mamma  !  "  said  little  Lily,  tenderly. 
"  Dear  mamma,  don't  cry  !  See  —  see  how  pretty 
the  sunshine  is  on  that  tree !  What  makes  some 
of  the  leaves  so  bright  and  red  ?  " 

"  The  leaves  are  dying,  darling,"  replied  Laura, 
in  a  choked  voice. 

Lily  looked  thoughtful. 

"  I  wonder  if  I  am  going  to  die  !  "  she  asked, 
after  a  pause. 

Laura  kissed  her  frantically,  with  streaming  teara 
18 


206 


"  Mamma,  now  I  know  why  you  cry  !  "  said  Lily. 
'  You  think  I  am  going  to  die  !  You  used  to  tell 
me  sometimes  about  little  children  dying  and  going 
to  heaven.  Will  I  go  to  heaven,  if  I  die  ? " 

"  Yes ! "  exclaimed  Laura,  her  tones  quivering 
with  the  fervor  of  sublime  Christian  faith.  "  You 
will  go  to  heaven,  my  darling." 

"  And  see  the  angels  there,  —  the  angels  with 
white  wings  ?  " 

Laura  could  not  reply  for  sobbing. 

"  0,  I  don't  want  to  die,  and  go  away  from 
you  !  "  murmured  the  child,  clasping  her  mother's 
neck,  and  sobbing  there ;  "  but  I  will  see  you  in 
heaven  some  time,  won't  I,  —  you,  and  dear  papa  ? 
And  will  all  the  friends  we  love  be  there  ?  0,1 
think  it  will  be  happy  !  But  I  hope  there  will  be 
flowers  in  heaven.  Say,  mamma,  are  there  flowers 
in  heaven  ?  " 

"  My  child  !  my  darling  !  "  sobbed  Laura,  "  how 
could  I  —  could  I  lose  you  ?  Yes  —  yes,  there  are 
flowers  in  heaven  !  " 

"  Yes,  mamma  !  I  know  it.  The  flowers  are  all 
dead  now,  you  told  me  yesterday,  when  I  wanted 
some.  I  did  not  know  they  would  die.  But,  if 
they  die,  they  go  to  heaven,  I  am  sure  !  The  flow- 
ers are  good ;  and  all  good  things  go  to  heaven  ;  just 
as  we  go  there  when  we  are  good.  Tell  me,  mam- 
ma, do  you  think  Aunt  Lucinda  will  go  to  heaven  ?  ' 


LILY   BELL.  207 

"I  hope  —  I  pray  —  I  believe  she  will!"  ex 
claimed  Laura. 

She  was  startled  by  hearing  a  groan.  She  turned 
quickly,  and  saw  a  tall  figure  standing  on  the 
threshold. 

"  My  sister  !  "  exclaimed  Laura,  eagerly. 

Lucinda  turned  and  fled. 

But  the  spinster's  heart  was  softened.  She  did 
not  flee  in  anger.  She  had  come  to  see  Lily  for 
the  first  time  in  the  Gothic  cottage;  and,  standing 
on  the  threshold,  her  soul  had  been  humbled,  puri- 
fied of  the  sin  of  anger,  and  melted  to  tears,  by 
what  she  had  now  heard.  She  wished  to  weep  in 
secret  in  her  own  chamber  But,  whilst  Laura  was 
still  gazing  at  her  retreating  figure,  from  the  win- 
dow of  the  cottage,  she  turned  again  ;  for  the  yearn- 
ing of  her  heart  proved  stronger  than  her  pride. 
With  sobs,  and  gushing  tears,  she  threw  herself  at 
Laura's  feet,  and  begged  to  be  forgiven. 

Poor  Laura's  heart  was  broken.  She  clasped 
her  in  her  arms,  and  wept  upon  her  neck. 

"  It  is  for  you  to  forgive  me  !  "  she  said,  sobbing. 
"  It  was  I  who  gave  offence  with  thoughtless  words, 
although  God  knows  how  I  loved  you  even  then  !  " 

"I  have  forgiven  you,  —  forgive  me!"  mur- 
mured Lucinda.  "  Forgive  my  foolish  anger,  — 
my  sinful  vanity, —  my  cruel  revenge  !  Love  me, 
—  love  me,  Laura,  love  me  ! " 


208  LILY    BELL. 

It  is  impossible  to  depict  the  surprise  of  Lucius, 
on  entering  the  house,  to  find  his  sister  there,  sitting 
by  Laura's  side,  and  holding  close,  close  to  her 
heart  the  dear  form  of  little  Lily,  whose  pale  face 
and  sad  blue  eyes  smiled  sweetly,  as  she  lay  on 
Lucinda's  bosom. 

"  Don't  wonder  at  seeing  me  here  !  "  said  the  old 
maid.  "  I  kept  away  as  long  as  I  could ;  but  my 
heart  is  not  so  strong  as  I  thought  it  was.  I  knew 
my  little  darling  was  sick,  —  I  was  told  she  was 
made  so  by  sleeping  in  this  new  house ;  my  con- 
science reproached  me  for  driving  you  here,  —  and 
—  and  —  forgive  me  !  "  said  Lucinda,  weeping  as 
if  her  heart  would  break. 

There  was  bitterness  in  the  heart  of  Lucius ;  and 
for  a  moment  he  stood  with  a  stern  brow  on  the 
threshold. 

"  Dear  papa  !  "  said  the  soft  voice  of  little  Lily, 
"  love  Aunt  Lucinda !  She  is  a  good  aunt,  and 
mamma  says  she  will  go  to  heaven,  and  be  with  us 
there.  Do  love  her,  papa  !  " 

"  Sister,"  said  Lucius,  his  lip  quivering  with 
emotion,  "  I  do  forgive  you !  This  is  no  time  to 
cherish  enmity,  and  I  thank  heaven  that  your  heart 
has  been  softened,  even  at  this  late  hour.  Ah! 
Lucinda,  Lucinda  !  "  he  added,  with  suppressed  pas- 
sion, as  if  his  soul  burned  with  the  memory  of 


LILY   BELL.  209 

wrongs,  "  had  you  shown  this  charity  before,  this 
bitter  affliction  might  have  been  spared  us  !  " 

Lucius  hid  his  face,  bending  over  his  dying  dar« 
ling,  while  his  whole  frame  shook  with  grief. 

There  was  a  great  wonderment  in  the  village 
when  it  was  known  that  a  perfect  reconciliation  had 
taken  place  between  Lucinda  and  her  relatives,  and 
that  the  spinster  had  declared  her  resolution  never 
to  leave  little  Lily's  side.  The  news  formed  fresh 
food  for  gossips;  but  never  were  hearts  so  far 
removed  above  the  power  of  scandal  as  those  which 
now  beat  with  sorrow  and  sickened  hope  within  the 
Gothic  cottage. 

Notwithstanding  the  tenderest  care  of  her  parents 
and  aunt,  little  Lily  faded,  faded,  faded  still,  as  the 
autumnal  skies  became  more  dull  and  dark.  The 
white  October  frosts,  which  painted  nightly  all  the 
ground,  and  the  bleak  winds  of  November,  which 
rudely  tore  away  and  blew  along  the  earth  the  last 
of  the  withered  leaves  that  clung  fluttering  to  dreary 
boughs,  served  to  chill  her  more  and  more.  She 
was  like  the  last  of  the  tender  sisterhood  of  flowers. 
Not  all  the  grief  and  agony  of  mortal  hearts  could 
save  her,  —  else  she  had  been  saved. 

It  was  late  in  December,  that,  one  gloomy  morn- 
ing, the  deep  tones  of  the  mournfully-tolling  bell 
emote  upon  every  heart  in  our  village.  Methinks 


210  ULY   BELL. 

I  hear  them  now,  solemn,  monotonous,  vibrating  in 
the  December  air,  — 

"  With  a  deep  sound,  to  and  fro, 
Heavily  to  the  heart  they  go  !  " 

Heavily  —  yea,  heavily!  burdened  with  grief  un- 
utterable, sorrow  and  despair  too  weighty  for  the 
human  soul,  —  for  little  Lily,  the  darling,  the  flower 
of  beauty,  innocence,  and  love,  —  SUE  WAS  DEAD  ! 

0  !  never  shall  I  forget  with  what  a  feeling  of 
loneliness  I  looked  out,  that  dull  December  day, 
upon  the  church-yard,  and  saw  the  old  sexton  walk 
slowly  through  the  black  gate,  with  his  pick-axe  and 
spade.  He  shovelled  away  the  crusted  snow  from  a 
narrow  space,  then  struck  his  pick  into  the  frozen 
ground.  What  desolation  in  the  thought  that  she 
—  our  darling  Lily  who  now  lies  cold  and  white  in 
her  shroud  —  must  be  buried  beneath  those  hard, 
heavy,  icy  clods ! 

The  following  day  was  Saturday.  On  Sunday 
there  was  a  funeral.  Beneath  the  pulpit,  in  the 
solemn  church,  there  was  a  little  coffin ;  and  near 
by  sat  Lucius,  with  his  wife  and  sister.  Never  can 
I  forget  the  anguish  of  these  mourners  !  Their 
souls  seemed  to  be  henceforth  the  habitation  of  sor- 
row only.  But  why  describe  —  why  attempt  to 
describe  such  grief  ? 

After  the  funeral  sermon,  the  little  coffin  was 


LILY   BELL.  211 

• 

unclosed,  and  old  and  young  gathered  around  it  to 
gaze  on  the  white  face  of  the  Lily  of  our  village  for 
the  last  time.  There  she  lay,  too  beautiful  for 
earth,  smiling  sweetly  even  in  that  endless  sleep  of 
death. 

The  sexton  had  removed  from  the  opening  of  the 
little  grave  the  boards  he  had  placed  there  to  keep 
out  the  snow ;  and  now  the  tight  coffin  was  closed 
again,  —  the  mourners  had  taken  their  last  look  of 
the  dead,  and  little  Lily  was  lowered  into  the  cold, 
dark  ground !  The  clods  fell  with  hollow  echoes  on 
the  coffin-lid;  and,  with  hearts  choked  with  afflic- 
tion, which  seemed  too  great  to  bear,  the  mourners 
went  home  from  the  resting-place  of  their  idol. 

But,  had  not  the  good  preacher  assured  them  of 
what  their  hearts  already  knew,  that  they  would 
meet  her  again  in  heaven  ? 

And  in  a  little  while  the  grasses  of  another  spring 
were  growing  above  the  mouldering  inhabitants  of 
the  church-yard  ;  and  there  were  flowers  planted  on 
one  little  grave,  and  watered  with  the  tears  of 
Laura  and  Lucinda ;  and  the  flowers  bloomed  and 
the  sun  shone  warmly  upon  that  little  grave,  and 
the  birds  sang  sweetly  around  ;  all  nature  proclaim- 
ing that  joy,  and  not  grief,  should  frequent  the  lowly 
bed  of  little  Lily  Bell. 

From  that  time,  Lucius  and  Laura  lived  with 
their  sister ;  and  their  hearts  were  closely  knit  to- 


212  LILY   BELL. 

gether  by  fellowship  in  affliction.  And  even  whea 
the  violence  of  grief  was  passed,  and  their  souls  had 
become  calm,  they  lived  together  the  same.  Two 
other  children  —  a  sweet  girl,  and  a  noble-hearted 
boy  —  came  to  make  them  forget  the  lost  one ;  but 
still  remembrance  fondly  turns  to  the  past,  and  is 
kept  fresh  by  the  sweet  picture  which  hangs  in  its 
old  place  in  Lucinda's  cottage,  —  the  beautiful  por- 
trait of  little  Lily  Bell ! 


THE    CROSS    HUSBAND. 


MRS.  CARSWELL  had  been  married  but  little  more 
than  a  year,  when  a  friend  dropped  in  upon  her  one 
morning,  and  found  her  convulsed  with  weeping. 

"  My  dear  Laura  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Marston,  in 
astonishment;  "how  happens  it  that  you,  who  were 
the  most  cheerful,  light-hearted  of  maidens,  have 
become  an  unhappy  wife  ?  Has  your  brief  experi- 
ence in  married  life  been  so  bitter  ?  " 

"  0  no ! "  replied  Laura,  drying  her  tears,  and 
endeavoring  to  appear  cheerful.  "  I  have  been 
happy,  —  I  am  happy,  I  assure  you.  My  husband 
is  the  best  of  men,  —  he  loves  me,  —  and  our  dear 
child  is  a  great  source  of  joy  and  comfort.  0,  no, 
my  experience  has  not  been  bitter!  " 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it ! "  rejoined  Mrs.  Marston ; 
"  but  it  seems  so  strange  to  see  you  weep !  Why, 
before  you  were  married,  your  heart  was  as  light 
as  a  robin's  in  spring.  You  were  all  smiles ;  and, 


214  THE   CROSS   HUSBAND. 

I  believe,  you  never  knew  what  it  was  to  shed  tears 
in  sober  earnest." 

"  True,"  said  Laura,  smiling  faintly,  "  I  was  a 
gay  and  thoughtless  creature.  I  believe  I  was  too 
happy.  I  ought  to  have  been  made  to  know  some- 
thing about  the  cares  of  life  before  marriage.  As 
it  was,  I  entered  matrimony  as  a  child  flies  joyously 
into  a  garden  full  of  flowers,  only  to  find  there  are 
sharp  thorns  among  the  roses,  and  bees  with  danger- 
ous stings  among  the  sweet  thyme." 

"  In  what  have  you  found  the  sharp  thorns  and 
spiteful  bees  of  married  life  to  consist  ?  " 

"  Nothing  worth  naming,  —  nothing  of  import- 
ance," replied  Laura,  blushing.  "  Indeed,  I  ought 
not  to  think  of  my  little  troubles." 

"  But  what  are  these  little  troubles  ? "  insisted 
her  companion.  "  Come,  I  shall  give  you  no  peace 
until  you  tell  me;  and  I  am  a  great  teaser,  you 
know,  when  I  choose  to  be.  Does  Mr.  Carswell 
spend  his  evenings  away  from  home  ? " 

"  0,  no  !  " 

"  Does  he  flirt  with  other  ladies  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed.  He  is  very  attentive  to  me.  He 
never  visits  or  attends  the  theatre  without  me." 

"  Perhaps,  then,  he  is  too  attentive ;  husbands 
sometimes  are,  I  am  told,  though  I  am  sure  the 
accounts  we  have  of  such  mortals  must  be  altogether 
fabulous." 


THE   CROSS   HUSBAND.  215 

"  I  think  so." 

"  It  must  be,  then,  that  Mr.  Carswcll  does  not 
provide  well  for  his  family.  But  I  know  he  is  not 
penurious." 

"  Penurious !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Carswell ;  "  he 
is  the  most  generous  man  alive  !  I  have  everything 
I  could  desire." 

"  Ah,  it  is  the  extreme  which  troubles  you," 
said  Mrs.  Marston.  "  I  see,  — your  husband  is  too 
extravagant.  In  his  eagerness  to  make  you  happy, 
he  neglects  to  pay  the  butcher  and  baker ;  and  fre- 
quent visits  from  certain  unwelcome  acquaintances 
annoy  your  sensitive  nature.  It  is,  indeed,  very 
provoking  to  have  one's  attention  called  a  dozen 
times  a  day  to  some  small  bill." 

"  I  beg  of  you,  don't  suspect  Mr.  Carswell  of  any 
such,  neglect,"  interrupted  Laura.  "  His  bills  are 
all  promptly  settled." 

"  Then  your  domestics  torment  you.  If  they  are 
ill-natured,  or  stupid,  or  lazy,  or  dishonest,  turn 
them  away." 

"  I  have  been  very  fortunate  with  my  girls,  I  am 
happy  to  say." 

"  Then  do  tell  me  what  troubles  you  have ;  I 
can  think  of  nothing  else.  I  should  say  you  were 
the  happiest  woman  in  the  world,  if  I  had  not 
caught  you  crying." 

"  I  tell  you  I  am  happy.     I  have  no  trouble,  — 


216  THE   CROSS    HUSBAND. 

that  is,  no  serious  trouble,  —  except  when  Mr. 
Carswell  appears  —  I  can't  explain  myself;  but 
you  know,  I  suppose,  men  are  not  always  in  good 
humor." 

"  Ha,  ha !  I  have  got  it  at  last !  "  cried  Mrs. 
Marston.  "  I  see  it,  —  so  your  husband  is  cross 
sometimes,  is  he  ? " 

"  0,  not  exactly  cross,  0  no  !  Indeed,  he  is  very 
kind-hearted  ;  but  he  has  got  into  a  way  of  finding 
fault  with  everything,  —  that  is,  everything  except 
me ;  all  this,  too,  without  knowing,  half  the  time, 
what  he  says.  He  scolds  about  the  cooking,  with- 
out suspecting  how  much  he  hurts  my  feelings; 
for  I  oversee  it  myself,  and  try  hard  enough  to 
please  him,"  added  Laura,  while  tears  gathered  in 
her  eyes. 

"  In  short,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Marston,  "  hc«is  a 
downright  cross  husband." 

"  0,  no  !  " 

"  Yes,  he  is  ;  don't  attempt  to  defend  the  wretch. 
But  if,  as  you  say,  he  loves  you,  and  finds  fault 
more  from  habit  than  any  settled  ill-will,  he  is  not 
past  all  help.  I  have  known  men  like  him.  They 
are  naturally  petulant,  but  they  generally  have  no 
idea  how  cross  they  sometimes  are.  They  can 
govern  themselves  if  they  like,  though;  they  arc 
not  incurable." 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Marston,"  said  Laura,  with  an 


THE   CROSS   HUSBAND.  217 

earnest  face,  "  you  really  appear  to  understand  my 
case  ;  and,  if  you  can  suggest  any  method  of  curing 
George  of  this  fault-finding,  you  will  remove  the 
only  obstacle  in  the  way  of  my  perfect  happiness." 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Laura,  you  don't  understand  the 
men  quite  as  well  as  I  do  !  To  root  the  rank  weed 
out  of  your  husband's  heart,  you  have  only  to  con- 
vince him  that  it  is  there,  and  demonstrate  how 
very  hateful  it  is.  Now,  if  you  say  to  him,  kindly, 
1  George,  don't,  I  pray  you,  find  fault  with  every- 
thing,' he  will  reply,  —  kissing  you,  perhaps,  — 
that  he  never  finds  fault  without  reason,  and  go 
on,  thoughtless  as  ever,  venting  his  spleen  at  every- 
thing." 

"  But  you  would  not  have  me  reprove  him  in  an 
unkind  manner  ?  " 

^  No,  indeed ;  that  would  make  him  worse  still. 
I  say  you  must  demonstrate  to  him  the  hatefulness 
of  his  habit  of  fault-finding." 

"  But  how  ?  " 

"  Why,  when  he  finds  fault,  you  must  help  him. 
If  he  scolds  at  his  coffee,  you  must  show  a  disposi- 
tion to  throw  it  out  of  the  window.  If  he  com- 
plains of  a  cold  room,  you  must  shiver  and  shake, 
and  scold  the  girl  for  not  keeping  a  better  fire. 
When  he  calls  the  bread  heavy,  you  must  suggest 
the  idea  of  using  it  as  clock-weights,  to  save  the 
expense  of  lead.  In  short,  you  must  altogether 
19 


218  THE   CROSS   HUSBAND. 

out-fret  him ;  find  ten  times  as  much  fault  ag  he 
does,  and  drown  his  voice  in  the  petulant  tones  of 
your  own.  Show  him  how  perfectly  miserable  you 
can  make  each  other ;  give  him  a  foretaste  of  the 
beautiful  bedlam  you  can  create  for  him  if  you  try. 
Thus  you  will  set  him  thinking ;  and  he  must  agree 
that  the  fault  which  appears  so  uncomfortable  in 
you  is  quite  as  far  from  seeming  amiable  in  him- 
self." 

Laura  was  much  amused  by  her  friend's  singular 
counsel ;  but  she  was  not  fully  convinced  of  its 
safety,  until  Mrs.  Marston  declared  herself  in  se- 
rious earnest,  and  instanced  a  cross  husband  who 
had  been  cured  in  the  manner  she  so  warmly  recom- 
mended. 

After  a  long  discussion  on  the  subject,  Mrs. 
Carswell  expressed  her  willingness  to  follow  «her 
friend's  advice,  but  seemed  to  doubt  her  ability  to 
play  the  character  it  would  be  necessary  for  her  to 
assume.  Mrs.  Marston,  however,  succeeded  in  per- 
suading her  to  make  the  attempt;  and,  having 
favored  her  with  full  instructions  how  to  act,  bade 
her  good-morning,  and  gayly  took  her  leave. 

Mrs.  Carswell  awaited,  with  some  anxiety,  her 
husband's  return  to  dinner  ;  and,  when  he  at  length 
arrived,  it  was  not  without  many  misgivings  that 
she  remembered  her  resolution  to  meet  him  in  the 
game  humor  he  himself  was  in. 


THE    CROSS   HUSBAND.  219 

It  was  a  cold,  raw  day  in  November,  and  it  so 
happened  that  Mr.  Carswell  was  unusually  cross. 

"  Such  wretched  weather !  "  he  exclaimed,  rub- 
bing his  hands,  and  scowling ;  "  and  this  room  is  as 
cold  as  a  barn." 

"  Jane,"  said  Laura,  "#why  don't  you  keep  a 
better  fire  here  ?  Pile  on  the  coal.  We  are  freez- 
ing." 

And  she  quietly  rocked  the  baby,  while  her  brow 
seemed  overshadowed  by  some  great  trouble. 

"  Is  n't  dinner  ready  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Carswell,  in 
a  petulant  tone. 

"  Nearly,  —  it  will  be  ready  in  a  few  minutes," 
replied  Laura. 

"  It  is  two  o'clock,"  said  her  husband,  referring 
to  his  watch.  "  When  a  man  comes  home  to  din- 
ner, he  does  not  like  to  be  kept  waiting." 

"  Why  is  not  the  dinner  ready,  Jane  ? "  said 
Mrs.  Carswell.  "  You  know  that  two  o'clock  is 
the  hour  we  dine  at." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Jane  ;  "  but  by  the  clock  it 
wants  five  minutes  to  two." 

"  The  clock  is  too  slow,"  growled  Mr.  Carswell. 

"  The  clock  is  too  slow,"  repealed  Laura,  in  a 
louder  key.  "  Why  don't  you  see  to  such  matters, 
Jane?  Set  the  pointers  along  five  minutes,  and  be 
sure  you  never  keep  the  dinner  waiting  again." 

Mr.  Carswell  cast  a  furtive  glance  at  his  wife. 


220  THE    CllOSS    HUSBAND. 

Having  always  been  accustomed  to  hear  her  apolo- 
gize whenever  he  found  fault,  and  endeavor  to  ex- 
cuse the  domestics,  he  hardly  knew  what  to  make 
of  the  change.  However,  he  said  nothing,  but  led 
the  way  to  the  dining-room  in  silence. 

Jane  was  left  in  charge  of  the  baby,  and  Susan 
the  cook  attended  the  table. 

"  Soup  !  "  said  Mr.  Carswell.  "  Why,  it 's  hot 
as  fire  !  Soup  should  never  be  put  upon  the  table 
in  such  a  state." 

"  No,"  added  Laura,  sharply.  "  Do  you  mean 
to  scald  people,  Susan  ?  Never  put  fire  on  the  table 
again." 

"  Tasteless  stuff,  too  ! "  muttered  Mr.  Carswell, 
daintily  touching  the  spoon  to  his  lips. 

"  Insipid !  "  cried  Laura,  impatiently.  "  What 
sort  of  mess  do  you  call  this,  Susan  ?  It  tastes 
like  the  broth  of  stewed  leather." 

Mr.  Carswell  could  not  help  smiling  at  the  con- 
cfeH ;  but,  at  sight  of  Laura's  long  face,  his  coun- 
tenance changed  immediately. 

"  Are  you  ill  to-day  ?  "  he  asked. 

"111?     No!"  replied  Laura. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  then  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  —  only  things  don't  go  exactly  to  suit 
me." 

These  being  the  precise  words  George  had  hun- 
dreds of  times  used  in  answer  to  similar  inquiries 


THE   CROSS   HUSBAND.  221 

from  his  wife,  he  paused  with  the  spoon  midway 
between  his  mouth  and  the  plate,  and  looked  her 
full  in  the  face,  in  great  surprise. 

"  What  does  not  suit  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Why,  the  same  things  that  do  not  suit  you,  I 
suppose,  —  the  soup." 

"  The  soup  is  not  so  very  bad,  after  all,  —  it  only 
required  a  little  salt." 

"  So  I  perceive,"  observed  Laura,  unable  to  re- 
press a  smile. 

Mr.  Carswell's  humor  seemed  to  improve,  until 
he  had  occasion  to  apply  the  carving-knife  to  the 
roast  beef,  when  his  countenance  changed. 

"  Done  to  a  crisp  !  "  he  exclaimed  ;  "  and  Susan 
knows  I  like  my  beef  rare.  My  dinner  is  spoilt !  " 

"  Susan  !  "  cried  Laura,  "  why  did  n't  you  burn 
the  meat  to  a  cinder,  and  have  done  with  it  ?  You 
might  as  well  put  a  coal  on  the  table.  I  never —  " 

"  Ah  !  "  interrupted  George,  in  a  pleasant  tone, 
"  it  is  not  so  bad  as  I  expected.  It  is  rare,  come 
to  get  into  it." 

•'So  it  is!  "  said  Mrs.  Carswell,  smiling. 

George  seemed,  for  a  moment,  diverted  from 
his  annoying  habit ;  but  presently  he  exclaimed, 
peevishly, 

"  What  wretched  potatoes !  They  are  not  fit 
to  eat.  I  never  satr  such  water-soaked  things 
19* 


222  THE   CROSS   HUSBAND. 

before.  What  is  the  reason  we  can't  have  our  pota- 
toes cooked  better  ?  " 

"  Sure  enough,  why  can't  we  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Cars- 
well.  "  Why  do  you  put  such  heavy  balls  on  the 
table,  Susan  ?  They  are  as  watery  as  melons.  If 
you  do  not  know  how  to  boil  potatoes  properly  —  " 

"  My  dear,"  interrupted  George,  "  I  am  inclined 
to  think  it  is  not  in  the  cooking.  The  potatoes 
were  not  good  in  the  first  place." 

"  Why  were  they  bought,  then  ? "  demanded 
Laura.  "  We  might  as  well  invest  money  in  poison 
parsnips.  Potatoes  that  are  not  fit  to  eat  are 
worse  than  none  at  all.  Here,  Susan,  take  them 
away." 

"  But,  my  dear,"  cried  George,  in  a  tone  remark- 
ably pleasant,  "  I  think  some  of  them  may  be  good. 
Now,  here  is  one  quite  mealy  indeed." 

"  I  can't  see  any  difference  in  them,"  observed 
Laura,  in  a  significant  tone. 

George  colored  very  red,  and  found  no  more  fault 
until  the  apple-pudding  was  brought  in. 

"  It  is  spoilt !  "  said  he,  throwing  himself  back 
in  his  chair.  "  The  crust  is  as  heavy  as  lead." 

"  Heavy  !  "  echoed  Laura ;  "  it  is  like  so  much 
grafting-wax,  —  tough  and  indigestible  as  a  saddle. 
Who  do  you  think  is  going  to  eat  such  a  mess  of 
boiled  dough  and  chopped  apples  ?  Throw  it — " 

"  My  dear,"  said  George,  in  a  conciliatory  tone, 


THE   CROSS   HUSBAND.  223 

"  I  think  a  part  of  this  side  of  it  may  be  pala- 
table. Why,  it  appears  quite  light.  The  apple  is 
very  nice,  and  —  " 

"  I  beg  of  you,  don't  eat  it  to  save  it,"  replied 
Laura,  pettishly.  "  But,  if  you  think  you  can  man- 
age to  do  anything  with  it,  help  yourself." 

George  did  help  himself,  and  discovered  that  on 
the  whole  the  pudding  was  a  very  creditable  affair, 
and  thrice  did  he  have  occasion  to  replenish  his 
plate  from  the  condemned  dish. 

Mr.  Carswell  was  heartily  ashamed  of  having 
found  fault  with  so  good  a  pudding,  and  felt  such 
anxiety  to  keep  Laura  in  good  humor  the  rest  of  the 
day,  that  not  another  word  of  complaint  escaped  his 
lips  before  leaving  the  house. 

At  evening,  however,  when  he  came  home  to  tea, 
his  petulance  had  returned,  and.  he  commenced  find- 
ing fault  with  a  smell  of  burnt  crusts  which  in- 
vaded his  nostrils. 

"  It  is  Susan's  carelessness,"  exclaimed  Laura. 
"  What  is  the  girl  about  ?  Jape,  go  and  tell  her 
that,  if  she  cannot  toast  the  bread  without  filling 
the  house  with  smoke,  the  sooner  —  " 

"  I  hardly  think  that  Susan  is  to  blame,"  inter- 
rupted George. 

"  Who  then  ? " 

"I  —  I  don't  know  that  anybody  is." 


224  THE   CKOSS   HUSBAND. 

"  There  must  be  somebody  to  blame  when  wo 
are  annoyed,"  observed  Laura.  "  Is  tea  ready, 
Jane  ? " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  replied  Jane. 

And  the  tender  pair  proceeded  to  the  tea-table, 
where  the  cloth  was  spread  in  a  very  inviting 
manner. 

So  firmly  fixed  had  George's  habit  of  fault-find- 
ing become,  that  he  complained  of  his  tea  almost 
before  he  tasted  it. 

"  It 's  a  pity  we  can't  have  a  good  cup  of  tea 
occasionally  !  "  murmured  Laura,  indignantly.  "  Su- 
san, take  away  these  slops  !  Try  again,  and  see  if 
you  can't  make  something  fit  to  drink." 

And,  without  saying  "  by  your  leave,"  Laura 
reached  forth,  took  away  her  husband's  cup,  and 
emptied  its  contents  into  the  slop-bowl,  at  the  same 
time  pushing  the  tea-pot  towards  Susan  with  a  look 
of  impatience  and  disgust. 

Laura  was  playing  her  part  capitally.  George 
became  alarmed.  . 

"  Don't  be  too  hasty,  my  dear,"  said  he ;  "  taste 
the  tea,  and  see  what  you  think  of  it." 

"  There  is  no  need,"  returned  Laura.     "  I  can 
take  your  word  for  it.     You  know  what  good  tea 
is ;  and  when  you  say  the  tea  is  bad,  it  is  enough. 
It  must  be  bad." 
"But  —  " 


THE   CROSS   HUSBAND.  225 

"  0,  it 's  useless  to  smooth  things  over.  When 
the  tea  is  bad,  we  may  as  well  speak  plainly  about 
it.  I  don't  mean  to  tolerate  insipidity  any  longer. 
Do  you  hear,  Susan  ?  " 

Susan  was  as  much  astonished  as  Mr.  Carswell 
himself.  But  she  said  nothing,  —  neither  did  he, 
—  although  he  was  compelled  to  wait  five  minutes 
for  the  return  of  the  tea-pot. 

This  time,  in  consequence  of  Susan's  haste  and 
confusion,  the  tea  was  really  insipid,  but  somehow 
George  found  it  excellent.  A  conciliatory  humor 
has  a  remarkable  tendency  to  quicken  one's  talents 
for  discovering  imaginary  perfections  in  things  most 
poor  and  unworthy. 

Accordingly,  George  found  no  more  fault  at  the 
tea-table ;  but,  on  entering  the  sitting-room,  he  un- 
doubtedly forgot  himself. 

"  What  an  atmosphere  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  It  is 
like  going  into  an  oven.  What  is  the  use  of  keep- 
ing a  room  so  hot  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  Jane  meant  to  roast  us,"  added 
Laura,  fanning  herself  violently.  "  Throw  open 
the  doors,  Jane.  The  baby,  poor  thing,  is  cooked 
brown  already.  You  could  bake  pies  here.  DC 
give  us  a  breath  of  fresh  air  !  " 

And  Laura  raised  the  window  and  sat  down  by 
it,  as  if  on  the  verge  of  fainting. 

George  ran  to  her  in  alarm,  drew  her  away,  and 


226  THE   CKOSS   HUSBAND. 

closed  the  window,  staring  at  her  as  if  he  deemed 
her  insane. 

"  You  would  catch  your  death-cold,"  he  ex- 
claimed. "  The  chill  night  wind  blows  in  —  " 

"  It  is  better  than  roasting,"  complained  Mrs. 
Carswell. 

He  bit  his  lips,  but  said  nothing.  The  doors 
were  closed,  and  the  amiable  couple  did  not  find 
thenfselves  uncomfortable,  even  with  a  little  more 
fire  in  the  grate. 

For  two  hours  George  and  Laura  sat  together, 
luxuriating  in  domestic  peace  and  comfort,  and  con- 
versing in  the  most  happy  manner. 

At  length  Laura  took  up  a  magazine,  to  read 
aloud  to  her  husband.  In  a  clear,  musical  voice, 
she  read  the  opening  chapter  of  an  interesting 
story,  which  was  so  pleasantly  and  truthfully  writ- 
ten that  George  listened  as  to  a  charm,  his  features 
glowing  with  pleasure,  and  his  beaming  eyes  fixed 
lovingly  on  Laura's  face. 

Just  as  she  was  commencing  the  second  chapter, 
the  baby  began  to  cry,  filling  the  house  with  the 
shrill  pipings  of  its  little  voice.  Of  course  Laura, 
ever  ready  to  leave  everything  to  run  to  her  darling 
child,  and  drive  its  fears  and  troubles  away  with 
endearing  kisses,  stopped  reading,  and  started  to  her 
feet. 

"  What  a  bother  !  "  muttered  George.    "  It  seems 


THE   CROSS   HUSBAND.  227 

to  me  that  child  is  crosser  than  ever,  lately.  It 
never  gives  us  a  minute's  peace." 

Laura  remembered  the  part  she  was  playing  at  a 
most  fortunate  moment.  Dashing  her  magazine 
upon  the  table,  with  an  impatient  gesture,  she  knit 
her  pretty  brows,  and  exclaimed, 

"  I  should  think  it  might  be  quiet  once  !  Why 
can't  it  sleep  when  we  are  enjoying  ourselves  ? 
Where  is  Jane,  I  wonder,  that  she  is  not  here  to 
take  care  of  it  ?  But  I  suppose  it  will  always  be 
so.  Children  are  the  curse  of  married  life  !  What 
people  marry  for  I  don't  know  !  The  prospect  of  a 
generation  of  squalling  brats  is  very  delightful ! 
I  '11  send  for  a  supply  of  paregoric  before  another 
night,  and  give  it  as  freely  as  milk.  I  won't  be 
tormented  this  way  much  longer." 

George  was  prodigiously  astonished  at  this  unex- 
pected burst  of  passion.  Then  he  became  fright- 
ened, believing  her  insane.  But  her  over-acting  was 
at  last  so  apparent,  that  her  ill-humor  was  no  longer 
a  mystery.  Something  like  the  truth  flashed  upon 
his  mind. 

"  It  strikes  me  that  you  find  fault  with  every- 
thing, to-day,"  said  he. 

"  Have  n't  I  a  right  to  ? "  retorted  Laura. 
"  Can't  I  complain  as  well  as  you  ?  I  've  left  the 
duty  of  fault-finding  to  yourself  long  enough.  Now 
I  am  going  to  help  you.  I  shall  do  my  share  of  it 


228  THE   CROSS   HUSBAND. 

in  future.  If  it  is  comfortable  for  one  to  complain, 
it  must  be  twice  comfortable  when  we  are  joined 
together.  We  '11  see  just  how  pleasant  a  home  we 
can  make  of  this  !  " 

Mr.  Carswell  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter. 
Laura,  wholly  unable  longer  to  sustain  her  part,  in 
which  she  had  astonished  herself  as  well  as  George, 
relapsed  from  the  furious  into  the  mirthful,  —  from 
tragedy  into  comedy,  —  and  laughed  until  the  tears 
ran  down  her  cheeks  and  fell  upon  the  face  of  her 
darling  child,  which,  all  the  time  she  was  uttering 
her  mad  complaints,  she  had  been  holding  tenderly 
to  her  heart. 

Gn  the  following  morning  at  breakfast,  George 
praised  the  buckwheats,  pronounced  the  beef-steak 
delicious,  and  drank  an  extra  cup  of  coffee,  declar- 
ing his  inability  to  resist  the  temptation  of  its  ex- 
cellent quality. 

At  dinner,  the  shrimps  were  cooked  exactly  to  his 
taste,  the  chicken  was  the  most  tender  and  savory 
in  the  world,  and  all  day  the  rooms  were  found 
to  be  of  a  most  comfortable  temperature. 

Thus  things  continued  three  days,  when  Mrs. 
Marston  favored  Laura  with  another  call,  and  in- 
quired about  the  success  of  her  plans. 

"  Ah,"  said  Laura,  "  I  can  never  express  my 
obligations  to  you !  George  has  really  learned  to 
control  his  temper,  as  I  knew  he  would  as  soon  as 


THE   CROSS   HUSBAND.  229 

he  was  aware  how  hateful  his  habit  of  fault-finding 
had  become." 

Mrs.  Marston  was  rejoiced  at  her  friend's  happi- 
ness ;  for  Laura  was  troubled  no  more  with  a  cross 
husband. 

But  I  hope  that  no  fault-finding  men  who  read 
this  sketch  will  impose  upon  their  wives  the  neces- 
sity of  following  Laura's  example. 
20 


THE    BLUE    EYES. 


STANDING  before  a  magnificent  mirror,  in  the  light 
of  brilliant  lamps,  a  young  and  radiant  creature  re- 
garded her  reflected  image  with  a  smile  of  pleasure. 
In  a  ball-dress  of  singular  taste  and  elegance,  her 
silken  brown  hair  falling  in  luxuriant  curls  about 
her  snowy  neck  and  glowing  cheeks,  her  graceful 
bosom  heaving  with  every  breath  she  drew,  and  her 
white,  delicate  and  slender  hands  glittering  with 
jewels,  —  truthfully  might  the  poet  have  said  of  her, 
"  beautiful  exceedingly  !  " 

There  was  beauty  in  the  symmetry  of  her  form, 
—  beauty  in  the  sweeping  arch  of  her  brows, — 
beauty  in  the  finely-chiselled  mouth,  Grecian  nose, 
and  brilliant  teeth;  but,  above  all,  was  there  a 
strange,  touching,  captivating  beauty  in  the  pure 
azure  of  her  large,  soft,  lustrous  eyes. 

She  smiled,  I  say,  as  the  faithful  mirror  flung 
back  to  those  beaming  eyes  the  light  of  their  own 


THE   BLUE   EYES.  231 

beauty  ;  and  through  those  lovely  lips  were  breathed 
the  half-articulate  words  — 

"  If  he  will  not  love  me,  others  shall,  at  least  !  " 

But  at  that  moment  the  smile  faded  from  her 
lips,  a  sigh  heaved  her  breast,  and  the  shadow  of  an 
intrusive  thought  darkened  those  eyes  of  blue. 

"  If  he  will  not  love  me  !  " 

She  repeated  the  words;  and,  sinking  upon  a 
chair,  pressed  one  of  her  hands  upon  her  brow. 
When  she  removed  it,  those  large  eyes  flashed  out 
with  a  deeper  blue,  and  a  wilder  lustre,  through 
the  glittering  crystal  of  a  tear.  This  she  dashed 
away,  and,  arising  majestically,  rang  for  an  attend- 
ant. 

"  Has  Mr.  Sandford  returned  yet  ?  " 

"  He  just  went  into  the  library,  ma'am,"  replied 
the  woman  who  appeared. 

A  moment  after,  she  of  the  blue  eyes  opened 
small  door  which  formed  the  entrance  to  the  apart 
ment  whither  her  husband  had  retired.  He  was 
sitting  by  a  table,  nervously  fingering  the  folds  of 
a  newspaper,  which  he  appeared  little  inclined  to 
read.  Mrs.  Sandford  paused  on  the  threshold.  The 
stern  and  forbidding  expression  of  her  husband's 
gathered  brows  scarcely  left  her  courage  to  address 
him. 


At  the  sound  of  that  low  and  gentle  voice,  Mr. 


232  THE   BLUE   EYES. 

Sandford  raised  his  head,  and  lifted  his  eyes  from 
the  newspaper,  to  meet  the  shrinking  gaze  of  his 
wife.  He  started,  and  his  lip  curled  bitterly,  as  her 
radiant  beauty  flashed  upon  his  vision. 

"  You  are  going,  then  ?  "  he  said,  in  a  suppressed 
tone. 

"Yes  Philip,"  she  replied,  blushing  deeply. 
"  Mr.  Lawrence  and  Lucy  are  going  to  call  for  me." 

"  Very  well,"  muttered  Mr.  Sandford,  compress- 
ing his  lips,  and  dropping  his  eyes  to  the  newspaper. 

The  blue  eyes  flashed.  With  a  toss  of  her  curls, 
Mrs.  Sandford  turned,  and  was  about  leaving  the 
room,  when  a  better  impulse  seemed  to  take  the 
place  of  her  momentary  resentment. 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  displeased,  Philip " 

"  Displeased  !     Why  should  I  be  ?     I  believe  it 

's  now-a-days  considered  very  absurd  for  husbands 

be   displeased  with  anything   their  wives   may 

oose  to  do !  " 

"  Mr.  Sandford  !  " 

"  Why  should  you  for  an  instant  fancy  that  I  am 
displeased  ?  True,  you  care  nothing  for  my  society ; 
you  prefer  the  glitter  and  the  glow  of  a  ball-room 
to  the  comforts  of  your  household;  you  choose 
to  leave  your  child  —  our  child  —  to  the  tender 
mercies  of  a  nurse ;  but  such  are  the  ways  of  the 
world,  and,  of  course,  I  shall  not  fall  into  the  vulgar 
fault  of  making  any  complaint.  Even  though  you 


THE   BLUE   EYES.  266 

prepare  for  balls  without  so  much  as  asking  my 
advice " 

"Philip!  Philip!  I  have  not  —  I  have  not  de- 
served this !  "  cried  Mrs.  Sandford,  with  a  passion- 
ate gesture. 

"  0,  be  calm  —  be  calm !  " 

"  Be  calm !  0 !  you  can  well  say  '  be  calm,' 
when  you  drive  me  frantic  with  your  coldness,  your 
irony,  your  hateful  sneers " 

"  Sophia ! " 

"  Well,  well !  I  will  be  calm !  I  have  nothing 
to  blame  myself  for,  and  I  will  not  be  vexed !  " 

"  You  have  nothing  to  blame  yourself  for !  "  re- 
peated Mr.  Sandford,  slowly,  in  a  deep,  significant 
tone.  "  Certainly  not !  Now-a-days,  a  wife  should 
never  think  of  consulting  her  husband  before  making 
up  her  mind  to  go  to  a  ball  at  all  hazards." 

"I  cannot  bear  that,  sir,  with  either  patience 
or  calmness !  "  cried  Sophia,  vehemently.  "  You 
wrong  me,  sir,  you  know  you  do !  I  should  never 
take  any  important  step  without  consulting  you, 
were  it  not  for  your  sarcasm,  and  your  bitter 
taunts.  This  afternoon  I  was  on  the  point  of  con- 
sulting you, — of  asking  your  permission,  before 
making  up  my  mind  to  go  to  the  ball,  —  but  your 
manner,  your  forbidding  aspect,  disheartened  me. 
Then  I  felt  that  you  loved  me  no  longer, —  that  you 
did  not  care  whether  I  went  or  remained  at  home  • 


234  THE   BLUE   EYES. 

and  so  I  held  my  peace.  You  paralyze  my  tongua 
with  your  indifference,  and  then  you  blame  and 
reproach  me  for  not  speaking." 

"  I  believe,  Sophia,  a  wife  would  never  hesitate 
to  mention  a  project  to  her  husband  of  which  she 
thought  he  would  approve.  It  is,  then,  plain  that 
you  knew  I  would  disapprove  of  the  step  you  are 
taking,  and  that  —  you  have  no  regard  for  my 
feelings" 

To  this  stern  reproach  Sophia  made  answer,  im- 
pulsively, 

"  Why  should  I  regard  your  feelings  more  than 
you  mine?  You  disapprove  of  everything  I  do. 
You  would  have  me  satisfied  with  your  coldness, 
nor  ask  for  nor  desire  anything  more.  But  I  can- 
not submit  to  such  tyranny,  and  I  will  not" 

And  she  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears. 

Mr.  Sandford's  features  contracted  with  an  al- 
most fierce  expression.  His  teeth  closed  angrily, 
and  glittered  through  his  curling  lips,  while,  uncon- 
sciously, his  fingers  tore  the  newspaper  into  frag- 
ments. For  nearly  a  minute,  he  regarded  Sophia 
with  his  blazing  eyes,  in  silence.  Notwithstanding 
her  beauty  and  her  tears,  he  was  angry  still.  Yet 
he  was  not  cruel,  —  he  was  not  cold.  Devotedly 
passionately  did  he  love  that  beautiful,  warm- 
hearted, capricious  wife.  It  was  what  he  deemed 
her  injustice,  in  accusing  him  of  coldness,  that  had 


THE  .BLUE   EVES.  235 

roused  his  resentment ;  for  he  could  not  see  the 
cause  she  had  to  consider  him  cold.  Proud,  sensi- 
tive, reserved  in  his  feelings,  he  had  always  con- 
cealed his  anguish  on  witnessing  his  wife's  love  of 
pleasure  ;  for  he  could  never  bring  himself  to  betray 
his  jealousy  of  the  admiration  she  everywhere  re- 
ceived, and  seemed  so  much  to  love.  His  reserve  she 
construed  into  indifference ;  and  she  imagined  that 
his  displeasure,  when  she  mingled  with  the  society 
of  which  he  himself  was  not  fond,  was  the  result  of 
a  selfish  and  domineering  disposition,  rather  than 
of  love.  This  misunderstanding  was  the  cause  of 
all  their  unhappiness ;  for,  while  Sophia  laid  all  the 
blame  upon  her  husband's  selfishness  and  want  of 
affection,  he  felt  that  her  love  of  pleasure,  and  her 
disregard  for  the  comforts  of  home,  were  the  faults 
which  ruined  his  peace.  Therefore,  loving  her  as 
he  did,  he  was  wrought  almost  to  fury  by  her  reiter- 
ated charge  of  coldness ;  and,  after  witnessing  her 
tears  for  some  time  in  silence,  he  said,  in  a  bitter 
tone: 

"  It  would  be  no  wonder  if  I  did  not  love  you, 
since  you  care  so  much  more  for  the  admiration  of 
the  world  than  for  my  happiness.  Your  conduct 
is  enough  to  drive  all  the  love  out  of  my  heart." 

Sophia  raised  her  blue  eyes,  which  flashed 
through  her  tears.  She  remembered  the  time  when 
but  the  first  crystal  drop  swelling  under  those  fringed 


236  THE    BLUE    EYES. 

lids  had  the  power  to  soften  her  husband  in  his 
sternest  moments ;  and,  contrasting  the  past  with 
the  present  she  gave  utterance,  on  the  bitter  im- 
pulse of  the  moment,  to  the  thought  which  had 
entered  her  heart  as  she  stood  before  the  mirror  : 

"  Although  you  do  not  love  me,  there  are  those 
who  do  ;  and,  since  I  am  nothing  to  you,  I  may  as 
well  make  the  most  of  their  society." 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  Philip.  "  Then  permit  me  to 
advise  you  to  dry  your  tears,  else  the  light  of  those 
eyes,  which  are  to  bring  admiring  lovers  to  your 
feet,  will  become  dim  !  " 

"  By  your  tone,"  answered  Sophia,  with  a  sneer, 
"  one  would  judge  that  you  would  gladly  have  it 
extinguished  altogether." 

"  Heaven  knows  it  would  have  been  for  my  hap- 
piness had  it  been  so  before,  like  an  ignis  fatuus,  it 
lured  me  to  my  ruin  !  " 

"  Why  don't  you  pray  heaven,  then,  that  I  may 
be  struck  blind  ?  " 

"  I  can  almost  find  it  in  my  heart  to  do  so  !  " 
muttered  Philip. 

With  an  angry  and  scornful  gesture,  Sophia  swept 
from  the  room.  Her  eyes  were  soon  bright  and  lus- 
trous as  ever  ;  —  her  maid  placed  another  jewel  on 
her  arm,  according  to  her  directions,  and  five  min- 
utes after,  she  was  on  her  way  to  the  ball,  resolved 
to  win  all  the  admiration  in  her  power.  Meanwhile, 


TI1E    BLUE    El'liS.  237 

Philip  sat  with  his  chin  resting  on  his  palm,  ab- 
sorbed in  thought.  The  last  hasty  words  which 
had  escaped  his  lips  awoke  remorseful  reflections, 
and  he  felt,  for  the  first  time,  with  any  degree  of 
force,  that  there  was  much  fault  on  his  side,  as  well 
as  on  Sophia's. 

"  She  did  love  me  once,"  thought  he  :  "  sometimes 
I  feel  that  she  loves  me  still.  Perhaps,  if  I  was 
more  frank  and  cordial  with  her,  she  would  be  so 
with  me,  and  we  would  live  more  happily  together. 
I  must  govern  myself  better ;  I  must  never  again 
allow  myself  to  speak  with  haste  and  passion,  as  I 
did  just  now.  I  will  try  kindness  to  wean  her 
from  the  dissipations  of  society ;  and  this  night  I 
will  begin.  I  will  sit  up  for  her,  and  ask  her  for- 
giveness for  my  harsh  and  hasty  words." 

Mr.  Sandford  certainly  loved  Sophia,  with  her 
graceful  person,  her  transparent  complexion,  and 
her  tender  eyes  of  blue ;  and  good  reason  had  he 
"  sometimes  "  to  feel  that  she  loved  him  still. 
She  was  one  of  those  creatures  with  whom  love 
is  a  necessity;  and  when  her  idol  —  for  such  her 
husband  was  —  threw  off  the  cold  mantle  of  reserve, 
and  appeared  himself,  she  was  all  affection  and 
devotion.  But  she  loved  society  better  than  he, 
and  she  was  as  incapable  of  comprehending  his 
indifference  to  it,  as  he  of  appreciating  her  fond- 
ness for  balls  and  parties.  And  she  loved  her  child 


238  TIIE    13LUE    EYES. 

too,  the  darling  Sophy,  although  she  could  leave  her, 
to  participate  in  the  pleasures  of  the  world.  I  will 
not  say  that,  during  the  three  years  of  her  married 
life,  Mrs.  Sandford's  disposition  had  not  suffered 
from  the  evil  influence  of  unhappy  domestic  rela- 
tions contrasted  with  the  follies  of  gay  society ; 
but  as  yet  all  her  better  feelings  were  not  smoth- 
ered, nor  had  vanity  usurped  the  place  of  the  most 
disinterested  and  pure  affection,  —  as  we  shall  see. 

Sophia  had  not  been  an  hour  in  the  ball-room, 
before  the  radiance  of  her  brow  began  to  be  over- 
shadowed by  frequent  and  fitful  clouds  of  sadness. 
The  reflection  that  she  had  left  her  husband  angry 
and  unhappy,  and  that  she  was  not  altogether 
blameless  in  their  last  and  most  serious  quarrel, 
would  intrude  upon  her  gayest  moments,  causing 
the  bright  smile  to  fade  from  her  lips,  and  the  light 
of  pleasure  from  her  blue  eyes.  In  the  graceful 
whirl  of  the  waltz,  she  became  abstracted,  and  often 
she  accompanied  the  merriest  music  with  sighs. 
Her  friends,  unaccustomed  to  behold  her  anything 
but  gay,  supposed  she  was  ill,  and  treated  her  with 
the  kindest  attentions  ;  but  these  only  added  to  her 
sadness,  in  reminding  her  of  its  cause. 

"  You  are  really  suffering,  Mrs.  Sandford,"  said 
Mr.  Amsden,  a  gentleman  with  whom  she  was  on 
terms  of  friendship.  "  If  you  wish  to  return  home, 
my  carriage  is  at  your  service." 


TUB   BLUE   EYES.  239 

Sophia  thanked  him,  with  a  smile,  but  politely 
declined  the  offer.  No  sooner  had  she  done  so, 
however,  than  she  regretted  her  decision,  and  her 
melancholy  returned  with  ten-fold  force.  Weary  of 
attempting  to  appear  gay,  she  at  length  resolved  to 
presume  upon  Mr.  Amsden's  friendship,  and  ask  the 
favor  which  he  had  before  so  kindly  offered. 

Accordingly,  she  sought  out  Mrs.  Lawrence, 
whom  she  accompanied  to  the  ball,  to  inform  her 
of  her  resolution ;  after  which,  she  cast  her  eye 
about  for  Mr.  Amsden.  Not  discovering  him  any- 
where, but  supposing  he  would  soon  make  his  ap- 
pearance, she  proceeded  ^o  the  dressing-room  ;  and, 
after  putting  on  her  things,  she  again  endeavored 
to  find  him,  but  with  no  better  success.  Im- 
patient, and  unwilling  to  trouble  her  friends,  she 
confided  the  cause  of  her  embarrassment  to  no  one, 
but,  after  waiting  a  few  minutes  for  Mr.  Amsden, 
and  making  some  inquiries  for  him,  she  glided 
from  the  hall,  and  tripped  lightly  down  the  broad 
stairs. 

Sophia  was  a  creature  of  impulse.  Unwilling  to 
return  to  the  ball-room,  and  reflecting  that  her  home 
was  only  two  streets  distant,  she  unfortunately 
formed  the  rash  design  of  proceeding  thither  alone, 
It  was  not  until  she  was  in  the  street  that  she  dis- 
covered that  it  had  been  raining.  The  water  struck 
through  the  thin  soles  of  her  shoes  in  an  instant, 


240  THE   BLUE   EYES. 

She  turned  back  in  haste,  but,  instantly  reflecting 
that  she  would  be  less  liable  to  take  cold,  if  she  ran 
immediately  home,  than  if  she  returned  to  the  dress- 
ing-room, or  stopped  to  call  a  carriage,  she  turned 
again,  and  tripped  rapidly  along  the  street.  The 
unhappy  woman  had  proceeded  no  more  than  half 
way,  however,  when  it  recommenced  raining  in  tor- 
rents. She  was  soon  completely  drenched  ;  and,  it 
being  a  December  night,  she  was  likewise  thoroughly 
chilled.  Alarmed  by  the  storm,  she  ran  faster  than 
ever,  regardless  of  the  eyes  which  followed  her  in 
astonishment.  A  stranger  offered  her  his  umbrella, 
but,  fearful  of  insult,  she  refused  it,  and  kept  on 
amidst  the  rain.  At  length,  in  considerable  trepida- 
tion, she  reached  her  own  door.  It  was  well  she 
arrived  as  she  did,  for,  at  that  moment,  the  street- 
lamp  before  the  house  seemed  suddenly  to  be  extin- 
guished. Surrounded  by  darkness,  frightened,  faint 
and  sick,  Sophia  felt  for  the  bell-knob,  and  rang 
violently.  A  strange  feeling  in  her  head  oppressed 
her,  and  she  leaned  against  the  door  for  support- 
Impatient,  terrified  by  the  darkness  and  the 
storm,  she  rang  again  almost  immediately.  A 
moment  after,  the  door  was  opened,  and  she  fell  into 
the  arms  of  a  domestic.  Startled  by  the  wholly 
unexpected  appearance  of  Mrs.  Sandford  at  that 
hour,  and  in  so  strai.ge  a  manner,  Margaret  uttered 
a  cry  of  surprise. 


THE   BLUE   EYES.  241 

"  Hush ! "  said  Sophia,  recovering  herself.  "  Don't 
disturb  Mr.  Sandford.  I  do  not  wish  him  to  know 
that  I  have  been  so  imprudent.  But  why  —  where 
• —  where  is  the  hall-lamp  ?  How  could  you  be  so 
careless  as  to  let  it  go  out  ?  Help  me  up  stairs  ; 
and,  Margaret,  do  you  take  care  that  such  an  acci- 
dent never  happens  again.  It  is  dark  as  a  pit 
here  ! " 

The  domestic  gazed  at  her  mistress  in  amaze- 
ment. 

"  Sure,"  said  she,  "  the  lamp  is  burning  very  well ; 
and  I  am  sorry  if  I  does  n't  plaze  ye." 

"  Margaret !  "  answered  Sophia,  in  a  tone  of  irri- 
tation and  displeasure,  "  what  do  you  mean  ?  You 
are  really  too  impudent  to  be  tolerated.  Why  do 
you  tell  me  the  lamp  is  burning,  when  the  hall  is 
certainly  so  dark  that  I  cannot  distinguish  a  single 
object  ? " 

"  Indade,  Mrs.  Sandford,  I  spoke  nothing  but  the 
truth  ;  and  ye  must  have  lost  yer  rason  to  say  the 
lamp  does  n't  burn,  when  sure " 

"  Margaret ! " 

"  What,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  Cease  this  absurd  talk  !     I  will  not  hear  it 
There  is  no  light !  " 

The  domestic  once  more  stared  at  her  mistress  in 
the  greatest  astonishment ;  but,  perceiving  how  pale 
she  was,  and  imagining  from  the  strange  expression 
21 


242  THE   BLUE   EYES. 

of  her  large  blue  eyes,  that  she  must  have  lost  her 
senses,  she  dared  not  utter  another  word.  She  con- 
ducted Sophia  directly  to  her  own  apartment,  whore 
a  bright  coal  fire  was  burning  in  the  grate,  and  a 
lamp  glowed  on  the  table. 

"  Margaret !  Margaret !  "  cried  Sophia,  wildly, 
holding  the  domestic's  arm,  "  tell  me  truly,  —  is 
there  a  light  here  ?  " 

Afraid  to  dispute  with  her  mistress,  whom  she 
now  regarded  as  quite  insane,  and  terrified  by  her 
wild  manner,  Margaret,  instead  of  replying  with 
words,  led  Sophia  to  the  fire,  and  placed  her  hand 
near  the  glowing  coals. 

"0,  God !  have  mercy  on  me ! "  cried  Mrs. 
Sandford.  "I  —  I  feel  the  heat,  but  I  see  no  light ! 
Margaret !  my  eyes  !  " 

And  with  a  low  moan  she  sank  in  the  arms  of 
the  terrified  domestic,  who  placed  her  on  the  couch, 
and  ran  in  frantic  haste  for  Mr.  Sandford.  Philip 
was  writing  in  the  library.  Startled  by  the  abrupt 
entrance  of  Margaret,  he  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ? "  demanded  he,  rising 
abruptly.  "Speak!  What  has  happened ?  What 
noise  is  this  I  have  heard  ?  Is  the  child  ill  ?  " 

"  No  ;  Mrs.  Sandford " 

"  She  has  not  returned  ?  " 

"  She  is  in  her  chamber  !  " 

Under  the  conviction  that  something  terrible  had 


THE   BLUE   EYES.  243 

happened,  Philip  rushed  to  his  wife's  apartment. 
He  found  her  lying  upon  the  couch,  with  her  hands 
clasped  over  her  ejes,  and  uttering  low  moans,  which 
went  like  death-knells  to  his  heart.  He  flew  to  her 
Bide,  and  throwing  his  arms  around  her,  discovered 
that  she  was  drenched  with  the  cold  rain. 

"  Sophia  !  Sophia  !  "  he  murmured  from  his  over- 
charged, trembling  heart,  —  "  where  have  you  been  ? 
What  has  happened  ?  Speak  to  me  !  " 

Mrs.  Sandford  answered  only  with  the  same  low, 
piteous  moan. 

"  If  you  love  me,  speak,  my  own  Sophia  !  Relieve 
my  suspense.  Tell  me,  what  has  happened  ?  " 

"  0,  Philip  !  Philip  !  "  moaned  the  unhappy  wife, 
"  you  have  your  wish  !  " 

"  My  wish  ?     What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  My  eyes  !  0,  my  eyes  !  " 

"  Your  eyes  !  "  echoed  Philip,  chilled  with  vague 
terror.  "  There  has  nothing  happened  to  them  !  " 

"  Philip  ! "  murmured  Sophia,  in  a  voice  which 
seemed  to  fall  faintly  from  a  heart  smitten  with  the 
sickness  of  despair  and  death,  —  "  Philip  —  I  AM 
BLIND  !  " 

Mr.  Sandford  seemed  for  a  moment  petrified  with 
consternation. 

"  Sophia,  it  cannot  be  ! "  were  the  words  which 
burst  from  his  lips,  as  soon  as  he  could  speak.  "  I 


244  THE   BLUE   EYES. 

know  it  cannot  be  !  You  arc  not  blind  —  not 
BLI.VD  !  " 

"  0,  Philip  !  I  cannot  see  you  !  All  is  dark- 
ness before  my  eyes.  O,  it  is  awful,  awful  to  be  — 
blind !  " 

Mr.  Sandford  rushed  to  the  chamber-door.  The 
terrified  Margaret  was  waiting  without. 

"  Call  Thomas ! "  exclaimed  Philip.  "  Be  quick  !, 
Send  him  in  all  haste  for  Dr.  Duncan." 

He  returned  to  his  wife.  He  clasped  her  in  his 
arms.  He  touched  with  passionate  tenderness  those 
large  blue  eyes,  the  light  of  which  had  been  his  light 
of  love,  but  which  rolled  in  darkness  now.  Franti- 
cally he  bestowed  on  her  the  most  endearing  epithets, 
and  entreated  her  to  say  that  she  could  see.  That 
man  of  deep  feelings,  who  usually  appeared  so  cold 
and  reserved,  was  now  all  passion,  all  impulse,  like 
a  child.  Sophia,  who  had  never  before  known  the 
depth  and  strength  of  his  love,  felt  a  ray  of  joy  steal 
in  upon  the  darkness  of  her  soul. 

"  Philip,  you  do  love  me  !  " 

"  0,  how  much !  My  best,  my  dearest  wife ! 
you  have  doubted  my  love,  I  know,  for  I  have 
been  unkind  to  you ;  but  I  have  always  loved  you 
devotedly,  and  you  will  forgive  me  !  Forgive  my 
harshness,  my  cruelty,  and,  0  my  wife  !  forgive  my 
last  words,  thoughtlessly  spoken,  as  we  parted  this 
evening ! " 


THE   BLUE   EYES.  245 

"  I  forgive  you,  —  from  my  heart  I  do ;  for  I 
know,  I  am  sure,  you  could  not  wish  me  blind  !  " 

"  Could  I,  —  0,  could  I,  when  your  eyes  are 
dearer  to  me  than  my  life  ?  Yet  I  was  cruel  to 
you,  Sophia  !  and  did  this  calamity  fall  alone  on  me, 
I  should  know  it  was  a  judgment  from  heaven.  But 
my  sin  could  have  no  evil  influence  on  one  so  pure, 
so  good,  as  you  !  " 

"  I  have  been  very  wicked  !  "  murmured  Sophia. 
"  I  have  been  so  vain,  so  unlike  a  true  wife,  a  duti- 
ful mother  !  But  bitterly  have  I  repented  this 
night.  I  could  not  be  happy,  when  I  remembered 
how  unkind  I  had  been  to  you.  I  could  not  wait 
for  our  friends,  but  I  came  alone  —  on  foot  —  to  ask 
your  forgiveness ! " 

Philip  could  only  murmur,  "  My  Sophia !  my  own 
wife  !  "  and  clasp  her  to  his  heart.  Meanwhile,  he 
had  administered  some  wanning  medicine,  and  re- 
moved her  wet  clothes.  He  now  waited  anxiously 
for  the  arrival  of  Dr.  Duncan  ;  but  during  the  delay 
he  did  not  neglect  to  console  her  with  his  affection, 
and  cheer  her  with  the  hope  that  her  blindness  was 
only  transitory. 

It  is  probable  that  both  Philip  and  Sophia  in- 
dulged this  hope.  Great,  therefore,  was  their  anx- 
iety for  the  arrival  of  the  family  physician,  who  was 
a  man  of  unusual  experience  and  skill,  and  who, 
they  felt,  would  be  able  at  once  to  put  an  end  to 


246  THE   BLUE   EYES. 

their  suspense.  At  length  he  came.  Philip  grasped 
his  hand,  and,  with  a  hurried  explanation,  led  him 
to  the  bedside  of  his  wife.  If  Sophia's  anxiety  to 
hear  his  decision  was  great,  Philip's  amounted  to 
dread,  and  was  painful  in  the  extreme.  A  fearful 
silence  prevailed,  whilst  Dr.  Duncan  considered  the 
symptoms,  and  examined  those  large  blue  eyes.  He 
turned  to  address  Mr.  Sandford,  aside. 

"  I  beg  you  not  to  conceal  anything  from  me  !  " 
said  Sophia.  "  I  can  bear  to  hear  the  truth  now 
better  than  at  any  other  time.  I  am  prepared  for 
the  worst.  Then  I  pray  that  you  will  keep  me  in 
suspense  no  longer,  but  tell  me  at  once  whether  I 
am  really  blind,  or  whether  I  suffer  merely  from 
some  temporary  disorder  of  my  system." 

"  Mrs.  Sandford,"  replied  Dr.  Duncan,  « I  will 
be  candid  with  you,  as  I  have  always  been,  since  I 
can  rely  on  your  firmness  and  good  sense.  Your 
eyes  atone  are  affected" 

Philip  became  frightfully  pale,  while  Sophia  only 
sighed. 

"  But  she  is  not  permanently  blind  ?  "  questioned 
Mr.  Sandford,  with  prayerful  eagerness. 

"  My  friend,  I  will  not  deceive  you.  She  has 
suffered  a  paralysis  of  the  optic  nerve,  apparently  so 
complete  that  I  doubt  whether  her  sight  will  ever 
be  perfectly  restored." 

Philip  was  silent  with  despair.   His  lips  quivered 


THE   BLUE   EYES.  247 

and  he  pressed  the  hand  of  his  unhappy  wife,  while 
his  heart  was  so  full  of  sorrow  that  he  could  not 
articulate  a  word. 

But  it  is  painful  to  dwell  upon  this  portion  of  our 
story.  The  light  of  the  Hue  eyes  was  extinguished, 
and  we  will  draw  a  veil  over  the  two  hearts  which 
sympathize  so  deeply  in  their  sorrow.  For  many 
days  Philip  never  left  the  chamber  of  his  wife.  He 
seemed  to  have  no  longer  a  thought  of  earth,  except 
that  which  concerned  the  alleviation  of  her  distress. 
Never  had  his  deep  and  entire  affection  for  her  been 
BO  apparent,  and,  if  there  be  any  consolation  in  a 
husband's  devotion,  she  must  have  been  consoled. 
On  the  other  hand,  never  had  her  heart  been  so  full 
of  love  and  gratitude  for  him. 

It  was  not  long  before  Sophia  became  reconciled 
to  her  lot.  She  learned  with  a  sweet  and  serene 
joy  that,  with  nothing  but  the  love  of  her  husband 
and  her  child,  she  could  be  happy.  The  kind  atten- 
tions of  her  friends,  who  came  to  sympathize  with 
her  in  her  affliction,  were  gratefully  received,  but 
they  were  nothing  in  comparison  with  Philip's  devo- 
tion, which  gave  her  so  much  strength  to  endure 
the  dispensation.  And  she  seemed  to  conceive  a 
new  tenderness  for  her  child,  in  which,  although  she 
could  not  behold  its  beauty  now,  she  took  more  pure 
delight,  as  she  strained  it  to  her  heart,  than  she  had 
ever  felt  before. 


248  THE   BLUE   EYES. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  no  efforts  were  made 
to  restore  Sophia's  sight.  The  most  skilful  oculists 
were  consulted,  none  of  whom  could  do  anything  for 
her,  or  give  her  any  hope. 

And  now  Philip  gazed  upon  those  large  blue  eyes, 
and,  knowing  that  they  could  never  behold  him  more, 
or  look  upon  the  beautiful  earth,  or  drink  in  the 
light  of  the  glorious  sun  again,  loved  them  with  a 
strange  yearning ;  with  a  child-like  tenderness  and 
idolatry  ;  with  a  deeper,  purer,  less  selfish  devotion, 
than  they  could  ever  have  inspired  with  all  their 
former  soft  and  lustrous  beauty.  Languishing  be- 
neath their  long,  dark  fringes,  they  were  more  than 
ever  now  the  light  of  his  happiness. 

It  was  touching  to  witness  the  solicitude  with 
which  the  devoted  husband  sought  to  compensate 
the  fair  sufferer  for  her  loss  of  sight.  He  was 
never  tired  of  reading  to  her,  until  she  was  tired 
of  listening ;  and  well  did  she  love  the  tones  of  his 
voice,  which  gave  to  poetry  a  finer  beauty,  and  to 
romance  a  greater  charm.  Then,  in  the  spring- 
time of  the  year,  Philip  conducted  her  into  the 
midst  of  sweet  verdure  and  fragrant  flowers,  and 
painted  to  her  warm  imagination  the  beauties  she 
was  not  permitted  to  behold.  She  inhaled  the  fresh 
and  delicate  odors  of  the  spring ;  she  felt  the  flowers 
upon  her  cheek,  and  Philip's  hand  in  hers ;  she  heard 
the  tones  of  her  child's  beloved  voice,  mingling  their 


THE   BLUE   EYES.  249 

music  with  the  notes  of  the  singing  birds,  and  she  was 
happy,  very  happy. 

"I  am  happy,"  she  would  say,  —  "happier  than 
when  the  eyes  of  my  body  were  opened,  and  the 
eyes  of  my  heart  closed ;  but  now,  Philip,  could  I 
only  gaze  once  more  on  you  and  on  our  child,  my 
earthly  bliss  would  be  perfect !  " 

Two  years  glided  away.  Sophia  lay  motionless, 
almost  lifeless,  on  a  couch  amidst  the  deep  shadows 
of  the  curtain's  sweeping  folds.  Another  soul  had 
been  ushered  into  the  world.  Little  Sophy  had  a 
brother  now,  and  Mrs.  Sandford  had  another  object 
to  love.  Ah !  how  the  mother's  heart  yearned  towards 
that  object  —  the  child  of  her  blindness  —  which  she 
could  not  see  ! 

The  mother's  lips  moved  with  a  feeble  murmur. 
Philip  bent  over  her  to  listen  to  her  faintest  words. 
Immediately  after,  he  gave  some  hurried  directions 
to  the  attendants,  and  the  babe  was  placed  on  its 
mother's  breast.  Her  heart  overflowed  with  inde- 
scribable tenderness. 

"  0,  Philip  !  "  she  murmured,  "  if  I  could  only 
BEE  it ! " 

She  raised  the  fringes  of  her  large  blue  eyes, 
which  opened  with  a  strange  expression.  A  cry  of 
joy  escaped  her  lips. 

"  Philip,"  she  said,  "  I  see  —  I  see  the  light ! " 


250  THE   BLUE   EYES. 

"  You  see  !  "  he  cried  ;  "  you  see  !  Sophia,  do 
you  see  ?  " 

«Yes, —  thank  God,  —  I  see  the  light!  I  see 
you,  I  see  my  babe,  dimly,  but  yet  I  see  !  0,  God 
be  praised ! " 

And  forth  from  those  blue  eyes  gushed  tears  of 
rapturous  joy,  which  Philip,  thrilled  with  indescrib- 
able ecstasies,  fondly  wiped  away. 

"  0,  Sophia  !  "  he  murmured  ;  "  this  happiness  is 
too  much — too  much !  Can  you  indeed  see  ? " 

She  could,  she  could! — she  saw  him,  she  saw 
her  babe  again,  and  almost  fainted  with  excess  of 
joy! 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  Sophia's  sight  had  thus 
unexpectedly  returned.  Those  blue  eyes  saw  again ; 
dimly  at  first,  it  is  true,  and  never  perhaps  with  all 
their  former  clearness  and  strength,  but  still  they 
saw ;  and  the  happiness  of  Sophia  and  Philip  was 
complete. 

It  were  superfluous  to  add  more  to  our  story. 
The  reader  can  imagine  the  continued  devotion  of 
Philip,  and  the  fondness  of  Sophia  for  his  second 
child,  with  whose  birth  were  associated  the  most 
tender  and  joyful  emotions. 

Yes,  the  light  of  the  blue  eyes  was  restored  ;  but 
her  soul's  vision,  which  had  been  born  of  her  physi- 
cal blindness,  also  remained.  She  had  learned  where 
the  real  happiness  of  a  true  wife  and  mother  is  to  be 


THE   BLUE   EYES.  251 

found ;  and  henceforth,  although  she  still  enjoyed  the 
society  of  her  tried  and  attached  friends,  she  seemed 
to  live  only  to  beautify  and  cheer  her  household 
hearth. 


THE  JOURNEY  FOR  A  WIFE. 


ONE  fine  morning  in  June,  Albert  Fairchild  se« 
lected  from  his  wardrobe  his  most  beautiful  suit, 
and  from  his  bureau  a  goodly  supply  of  linen  ;  and, 
•with  a  countenance  glowing  with  joyful  anticipa- 
tion, commenced  packing  a  capacious  valise,  and 
making  other  preparations  for  a  journey. 

Mr.  Albert  Fairchild  was  going  to  visit  a  young 
lady,  of  whom  it  is  necessary  that  we  should  say  a 
few  words  before  proceeding  with  our  story. 

Josephine  Marvin  resided,  with  her  parents,  in  a 
village  which  we  shall  call  Pekin,  in  order  not  to 
offend  the  modesty  of  its  inhabitants  by  using  the 
real  name  of  the  locality ;  and  out  of  this  village 
she  had  never  journeyed  far,  except  on  three  occa- 
sions. She  had  made  three  visits  to  relatives  in 
town,  with  whom  she  had  spent  months  at  a  time. 
Here  Mr.  Albert  Fairchild  saw  her,  admired  her, 
and  ended  by  loving  her  devotedly.  Satisfied  witU 


THE   JOUIINKY    FOB   A    WIFE.  253 

her  beauty  and  excellence,  he  offered  her  his  hand ; 
but  she  said,  "  You  must  come  and  see  me  at  my 
home,  and  become  acquainted  with  my  parents, 
before  exacting  an  engagement  from  me ;  for  it 
may  be  you  will  not  like  them,  and  it  is  possible 
they  will  not  fancy  you;  in  cither  case  I  should 
hesitate  to  accept  your  gracious  offer." 

Miss  Marvin  had  returned  to  Pekin ;  and  now 
as  already  stated,  Albert  was  intending  to  visit  her 
family.  Confident  that  Josephine  was  inclined  to 
favor  his  suit,  and  blessed  with  a  tolerably  good 
opinion  of  himself,  which  told  him  the  Marvins 
would  not  object  to  either  his  station  in  life  or  his 
personal  appearance,  he  set  out  on  his  journey  iu 
excellent  spirits. 

The  first  forty  miles  he  accomplished  by  railway- 
steam,  in  the  space  of  two  hours.  At  a  small  town 
in  the  country,  he  found  himself  compelled  to  wait 
for  a  stage-coach  to  convey  him  to  the  village  of 
Pekin. 

Impatient  to  proceed,  Albert  became  ill-humored, 
and  grumbled  at  the  necessary  delay.  To  while 
away  the  time,  he  drank  a  cup  of  coffee,  ate  a 
penny's  worth  of  pea-nuts,  read  a  few  paragraphs 
in  a  newspaper,  and  walked  the  parlor-floor  of  the 
wretched  inn  with  impatient  strides. 

"  Are  you  going  to  Pekin  ? "  asked  a  quiet 
voice. 

22 


254  THE   JOURNEi*   FOB   A   WIFE. 

He  glanced  at  the  speaker,  who  was  a  ir.id die- 
aged  gentleman,  in  a  loose  drab  coat,  a  well-devel- 
oped waistcoat  of  worn  and  faded  velvet,  and  a  hat 
that  had  evidently  been  useful  for  years  ;  and  who 
presented  a  rough  and  careless  appearance  alto- 
gether. 

Now,  Albert  had  one  fault,  which  is  a  common 
one  with  travellers.  He  had  no  desire  to  make 
himself  sociable,  or  even  civil,  in  the  company  of 
strangers.  If  an  unknown  person  asked  him  a 
question  in  the  politest  manner,  he  was  sure  to 
answer  shortly,  or  give  no  answer  at  all.  More- 
over, his  motto,  when  travelling,  was  "  Every  one 
for  himself;  "  and  this  he  made  his  invariable  rule 
of  action.  A  proposal  to  put  himself  out  of  his  way 
to  accommodate  a  stranger  he  would  have  ridiculed 
as  the  height  of  absurdity. 

Knowing  this  disposition  in  our  hero,  the  reader 
will  not  be  surprised  when  told  that,  instead  of 
giving  a  simple  affirmative  answer,  or  even  a  re- 
sponsive nod,  he  regarded  the  rough-looking  man  a 
moment  in  silent  disdain,  and  passed  on  without  a 
word. 

But  the  old  gentleman  with  the  drab  coat  and 
faded  velvet  waistcoat,  in  spite  of  his  rough  appear- 
ance, evidently  possessed  a  patient  and  good-natured 
disposition,  which  was  not  easily  to  be  disturbed. 


THE   JOURNEY   FOR   A    WIFE.  255 

Without  appearing  to  notice  Albert's  incivility,  he 
quietly  remarked,  as  he  came  in  his  way  again, 

"  You  are  going  to  Pekin,  I  should  judge  ?  " 

"  What  if  I  am  ?  "  growled  Albert. 

"  0,  nothing,"  answered  the  old  gentleman,  with 
a  good-natured  smile ;  "  only  I  'd  advise  you  to 
book  your  name  for  a  seat  in  the  stage  at  once,  if 
you  have  not  done  so ;  for  I  have  no  doubt  but 
there  will  be  half-a-dozen  more  passengers  than  the 
coach  can  accommodate." 

Now,  Albert  had  not  booked  his  name,  and  he 
ought  to  have  thanked  the  old  gentleman  for  his 
suggestion.  So  far,  however,  from  manifesting  any 
sense  of  obligation,  he  replied  with  an  insulting 
"  Hem  !  "  and  abruptly  turned_upon  his  heel. 

In  effect,  he  found  that  there  was  but  one  seat 
in  the  stage-coach  left  unengaged,  and  that  an  out- 
side one ;  and  he  had  scarcely  booked  his  same, 
when  two  other  gentlemen  came  up  in  haste,  nym- 
ifesting  much  disappointment  on  learning  that  there 
was  not  room  for  them  in  the  next  stage.  Albert 
was,  therefore,  fully  conscious  that  he  owed  his 
chance  to  the  old  gentleman  whom  he  had  treated 
so  rudely. 

He  placed  his  valise  on  the  floor  in  the  public 
room,  and,  lighting  a  cigar,  sat  down  by  his  prop- 
erty, to  beguile  his  impatience  with  smoke.  He 
had  been  thus  employed  but  a  few  moments,  when 


256  THE    JOUIiXEY    FOR    A    WIFE. 

the  old  gentleman  in  the  velvet  waistcoat  came  and 
sat  down  at  his  right  hand.  Albert  looked  at  him 
through  wreaths  of  smoke,  as  if  the  old  gentleman 
had  been  nothing  but  smoke  himself,  of  a  disagree- 
able quality,  and  puffed  away  without  noticing  him 
further. 

"  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  give  me  the  time, 
sir?"  civilly  asked  the  old  gentleman,  glancing  at 
Albert's  showy  fob-chain. 

"  Give  you  what  ?  "  muttered  Albert,  as  if  he  had 
not  understood  ;  at  the  same  time  puffing  a  volume 
of  smoke  in  the  good-humored  face  of  the  old  gen- 
tleman. 

"The  time,  if  you  please,  sir.  Is  it  eleven 
o'clock  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Albert,  without  deign- 
ing to  look  at  his  watch. 

A  moment  after,  the  young  man  moved  his  chair 
to  another  part  of  the  room,  and  sat  down,  his  back 
turned  towards  the  drab  coat  and  velvet  waistcoat. 

The  stage-coach  drove  up  shortly  after;  and, 
having  discharged  its  passengers  and  changed  horses, 
made  ready  for  the  return  route  to  Pekin. 

Albert  and  another  traveller  occupied  a  seat 
designed  to  accommodate  three,  directly  behind  the 
driver.  Both  were  slender  men,  yet  they  man- 
aged to  spread  themselves  so  as  to  give  the  seat  the 
appearance  of  being  full.  The  stage  was  nearly 


THE   JOURN12Y   FOR   A    WIFE.  257 

ready  to  depart,  when  the  old  gentleman  in  the  drab 
coat  came  out  of  the  tavern,  with  a  heavy  carpet- 
bag in  his  hand,  and  looked  inquiringly  at  the  out- 
side passengers. 

"  Iloorn  for  another  up  there  ?  "  he  asked,  smiling 
at  Albert. 

"We're  crowded  now,"  responded  the  young 
Kan,  sharply. 

"  You  will  have  to  get  up  there,  sir,"  observed 
the  driver,  addressing  the  drab  coat.  "  That  seat 
ought  to  accommodate  three." 

"  Then  I  suppose  I  must  take  my  chance  with 
the  rest  of  you ! "  cried  the  old  gentleman,  with  a 
good-humored  laugh,  as  he  climbed  upon  the  stage. 
"  Sorry,  young  gentlemen,  to  trouble  you  to  make 
room,"  he  added,  as  neither  Albert  nor  the  other 
traveller  attempted  to  move ;  "  but  I  believe  I  am 
entitled  to  a  seat  here.  Ha  !  tight  fit,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

The  old  gentleman,  who,  as  we  have  intimated, 
was  rather  corpulent,  appeared  to  take  no  notice  of 
the  }7oung  men's  unaccommodating  manners,  but 
settled  slowly  and  deliberately  upon  the  seat  be- 
tween them,  compelling  them,  in  order  to  avoid  an 
unpleasant  pressure,  to  contract  their  dimensions, 
and  give  him  his  share  of  the  room. 

"  This  is  an  imposition !  "  cried  Albert,  to  the 
driver. 

"  What  is  an  imposition  ?  " 
22* 


258  TUE   JOCHXET    TOR    A    WIFE. 

"  Look  for  yourself.  This  seat  is  too  short  for 
three  men  of  ordinary  size,  and  this  corpulent  fel- 
low will  crush  us  !  " 

"  Dear  me  !  I  hope  not !  "  exclaimed  the  old 
gentleman.  "I  shouldn't  like  to  do  that,  I  de- 
clare !  But  it  is  a  close  fit,  is  n't  it  ?  Ha  !  ha ! 
too  much  flesh  is  inconvenient,  to  be  sure." 

"  Men  over  twenty-sis  inches  broad  should  buy 
two  seats,"  muttered  Albert. 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  "  laughed  the  good-humored  trav- 
eller. "  I  don't  know  but  we  fat  fellows  ought  to 
pay  for  the  extra  room  we  occupy." 

"  You  ought  to  have  some  regard  for  othei  trav- 
ellers !"  said  Albert; — advocating  a  principl  \  by 
the  way,  which  he  never  considered  himself. 

"  That  is  a  fact,"  replied  the  proprietor  of  the 
velvet  waistcoat  "  We  have  no  right  to  disregard 
the  feelings  of  others.  I  believe  I  must  diet  my 
corpulency,  for  the  benefit  of  society ;  but  we  will 
be  obliged  to  get  along  the  best  way  we  can  to-day, 
for  my  substance  is  rather  solid.  Ah,  I  'm  sorry 
to  discommode  you !  I  only  wish,  for  your  sake,  I 
was  smaller." 

This  last  remark  was  followed  by  a  good-natured 
laugh  from  all  the  outside  passengers,  except  Al- 
bert, who  had  become  decidedly  sullen. 

The  stage-coach  now  rolled  heavily  off  with  its 
load,  the  driver  cracking  his  long  whip,  and  urging 


THE   JOURNEY    FOR   A   WIFE.  259 

his  horses  into  a  rapid  pace.  For  some  time  neither 
of  the  outsiders  spoke,  each  appearing  busy  with 
his  own  thoughts.  At  length  the  old  gentleman 
in  the  drab  coat,  whose  patience,  it  seemed,  nothing 
could  exhaust,  and  whose  even  temper  nothing  could 
ruffle,  remarked,  addressing  himself  to  Albert, 

"  This  is  really  a  fine  day,  sir.  Were  you  ever 
in  this  part  of  the  country  before  ?  " 

"  No,"  was  the  abrupt  reply. 

"  Don't  you  think  it  a  fine  region  ?  Observe 
those  hills,  which  the  spring  has  spread  with  green 
carpets;  and  remark  how  beautiful  yonder  forest 
looks  in  the  sunshine  !  This  is  an  excellent  soil  for 
a  variety  of  agricultural  purposes ;  well  watered,  as 
you  perceive,  by  a  river,  which  you  may  see  glim- 
mering through  yonder  clump  of  fine  peach-trees." 

The  only  reply  that  Albert  gave  to  these  observ- 
ations was,  we  are  sorry  to  say,  a  really  piggish  sort 
of  grunt ! 

.  "  You  may  travel  the  country  through,"  pursued 
the  velvet  waistcoat,  "  and  you  will  not  find  a  more 
beautiful  and  fertile  district  than  this." 

"  — m  !  "  grunted  Albert. 

"  The  character  of  the  inhabitants,  too,  stands 
high.  They  are  a  plain,  common-sense  class  of 
people,  but  they  are  distinguished  for  their  hospital- 
ity and  genuine  politeness." 

"  — m  !  "  grunted  Albert. 


260  THE   JOU11NEY    FOR   A    WIFE. 

"  We  are  now  in  Pekin,"  pursued  the  old  gentle- 
man, after  a  long  pause.  "  There  is  a  fine  tavern 
over  the  hill." 

These  remarks  caused  Albert  to  start ;  but,  too 
proud  to  betray  an  interest  in  anything  the  old 
gentleman  said,  he  maintained  a  studied  silence. 

Thus  he  accomplished  his  journey.  Like  too 
many  travellers,  he  disdained  to  appear  sociable 
towards  strangers,  little  knowing  how  much  useful 
information  is  sometimes  gained,  —  how  much  one's 
insight  into  human  nature  is  improved,  —  how 
much  good  feeling  may  be  cultivated  by  the  use  of 
common  and  familiar  politeness  among  people  met 
in  stage-coaches  and  hotels. 

Arrived  at  the  tavern,  and  little  caring  what 
became  of  his  excellent  friend  of  the  velvet  waist- 
coat and  drab  coat,  Albert  leaped  off  the  coach,  and 
ordered  his  valise  carried  to  his  new  apartments. 
While  dressing  himself  with  great  care,  the  young 
man  forgot  his  ill-humor  in  the  glowing  anticipation 
he  entertained  of  a  speedy  and  happy  meeting  with 
Josephine.  Having  partaken  of  a  slight  repast,  he 
engaged  a  buggy  to  transport  him  to  Mr.  Marvin's 
residence. 

The  boy  who  went  with  the  buggy  drove  up 
before  a  spacious  and  elegant  white  house,  which 
had  a  remarkably  neat  and  comfortable  appearance. 

"This  is  Marvin's,"  said  the   boy.     "The  big 


THE   JOUHNKY    FOR   A    WIFE.  261 

gate  is  locked,  or  I  would  drive  in :  but  you  can 
pass  up  this  right-hand  path,  which  will  take  you 
right  to  the  door." 

Albert  gave  the  boy  a  shilling;  then,  leaping 
lightly  to  the  earth,  he  entered  the  grounds  by  a 
smaller  gate,  and,  with  a  beating  heart,  hastened  to 
meet  his  Josephine. 

As  he  was  passing  up  the  avenue,  a  circumstance 
occurred  which  occasioned  him  considerable  mortifi- 
cation. A  laboring  man,  in  a  slouched  hat  and  tow 
frock,  who  was  at  work  around  some  young  plum- 
trees  near  the  house,  turned,  as  the  young  man  ap- 
proached, and  discovered  the  familiar  features  of 
his  old  friend  the  corpulent  gentleman,  of  velvet 
waistcoat  memory. 

"Such,"  thought  Albert,  —  passing  on  without 
deigning  to  notice  the  good-natured  man,  —  "  such 
is  the  impudence  of  people  in  the  country  !  This 
common  serving-man,  having,  by  some  means,  ob- 
tained permission  to  leave  his  work  for  a  few  hours, 
gets  into  respectable  company  away  from  home, 
and  endeavors  to  establish  himself  on  a  friendly  and 
sociable  footing  with  gentlemen !  Now,  suppose  I 
had  been  familiar  with  him  ;  what  a  fine  thing  it 
would  be  to  meet  him,  at  last,  in  his  true  capacity ! 
I  wonder  if  I  shall  suffer  from  his  impertinence  in 
Mr.  Marvin's  house  ?  " 

With  these  thoughts  running  through  his  brain, 


262  TUB   JOCRNEi*   FOR   A    WIFE. 

Albert  struck  the  heavy  knocker,  and  brought  an 
Irish  girl  to  the  door.  He  was  shown  into  a  neat 
parlor  immediately,  where  he  had  not  long  to  wait 
for  Josephine. 

To  describe  the  meeting  of  the  lovers  would  be  to 
write  a  great  many  things  which  it  is  well  enough 
for  young  people  of  tender  sentiments  to  say,  but 
which  do  not  sound  quite  so  well  repeated  to  less 
passionate  ears.  Suffice  it,  that  both  Albert  and 
Josephine  were  very  happy  to  meet  again,  and  that 
the  former  took  great  delight  in  praising  Mr.  Mar- 
vin's residence,  while  the  latter  was  quite  as  well 
pleased  at  hearing  it  praised. 

"  You  have,  really,  a  lovely  home,  —  so  quiet  and 
tasteful,  Josephine,"  said  Albert,  "  that  my  heart 
sinks  within  me  when  I  think  of  my  audacity  to 
hope  you  may  some  day  leave  it  for  me  !  But  your 
parents,  —  I  am  anxious  to  see  them." 

"  0,  you  shall  soon  be  gratified.  I  am  proud  of 
my  parents,  Albert !  They  are  plain  people,  but  so 
good!" 

"  Just  the  sort  of  people  to  suit  me !  "  said  the 
enthusiastic  lover. 

Mrs.  Marvin  entered  presently,  and  he  was  not 
disappointed.  He  immediately  set  her  down  as  the 
paragon  of  elderly  ladies,  and  was  admiring  her 
genial  countenance  and  unaffected  manners,  when 
Josephine  announced  her  father. 


THE   JOURNEY   FOR   A   WIFE.  263 

Albert  arose  suddenly,  and  turned  to  greet  him 
with  becoming  reverence  and  civility.  Reader,  O 
reader!  can  you  imagine  the  young  man's  con- 
sternation and  despair,  when  he  saw  coming  into 
the  door  the  drab  coat,  velvet  waistcoat,  and 
familiar  countenance,  of  his  corpulent  stage-coach 
acquaintance? 

"  Mr.  Fairchild,  father,"  said  Josephine. 

Albert  felt  himself  about  sinking  through  the 
floor. 

"I  —  I  believe  —  "  he  stammered,  "  we  have  — 
met  before ! " 

"  Ha  !  my  young  friend  of  the  stage-coach  !  " 
exclaimed  the  old  gentleman,  giving  his  hand  a  hos- 
pitable shake.  "  Certainly,  we  have  met  before !  "  ' 

This  was  like  heaping  coals  of  fire  upon  Albert's 
head.  His  face  burned  with  shame,  and  his  tongue 
stammered  with  confusion.  Making  a  very  awk- 
ward and  ineffectual  attempt  to  say  something  civil, 
he  sank  upon  a  chair  with  sick  and  ghastly  looks, 
which  frightened  Josephine. 

"  Indeed,"  pursued  the  old  gentleman,  as  if  he 
remembered  nothing  of  Albert's  rudeness,  "  I  am 
happy  at  meeting  you  again  so  soon.  How  do 
you  like  the  appearance  of  Pekin  ?  " 

"  0,  we  —  well !  "  stammered  Albert. 

"  Glad  to  hear  it !  And  the  appearance  of  the 
inhabitants  ? " 


264  THE   JOUKNEY   FOR    A   WIFE. 

"  0,  very  —  verj  well !  " 

"  Indeed  !  I  was  afraid  you  would  have  no  fancy 
for  us  plain  people." 

Thus  the  old  gentleman  went  on,  conversing  in 
the  most  easy  and  amiable  manner,  as  if  it  was  his 
only  study  to  entertain  his  guest.  Albert  listened 
with  a  faint  heart  and  an  upbraiding  conscience, 
feeling  keenly  the  contrast  between  the  old  gentle- 
man's excellent  nature  and  genuine  politeness,  and 
his  own  ill  temper  and  incivility. 

In  a  short  time  Josephine's  parents  withdrew,  and 
she  was  left  alone  with  her  miserable  lover.  Albert 
threw  himself  at  her  feet,  and  there,  refusing  to  rise, 
he  confessed  his  ill  treatment  of  her  venerable  parent, 
and  besought  her  both  to  forgive  him  and  intercede 
with  her  father  for  his  pardon.  Astonished  and 
shocked  at  first,  Josephine  knew  not  what  to  think 
or  say ;  but,  to  relieve  the  agony  of  her  repentant 
lover,  she  took  pity  on  his  wretchedness,  and  prom- 
ised all  he  asked. 

Indescribable  was  his  anxiety  of  mind,  until  Jose- 
phine had  seen  her  father,  and  the  old  gentleman 
came  walking  into  the  room  where  the  young  man 
was  alone.  Mr.  Marvin's  countenance  wore  the 
same  good-natured  smile,  which  even  the  insolent 
treatment  he  had  received  could  not  banish ;  and, 
frankly  extending  his  hand,  he  advanced  towards 
his  prospective  60ii-in-law. 


THE   JOURNEY    FOR,   A   WIFE.  265 

"  Well,  well,"  he  exclaimed,  before  Albert  could 
speak,  "  the  past  cannot  be  recalled  ;  and  I  suppose 
the  less  said  about  it  the  better.  For  my  own  part, 
I  freely  forgive  the  rather  ungentlemanly  manner 
you  used  towards  me.  In  fact,  I  care  nothing  for 
it  now  ;  yet,  I  must  say  that  it  gives  me  pain  to 
think  that  you  are  in  the  habit  of  giving  way  to  ill- 
natured  feelings  while  travelling.  Don't  speak  !  I 
know  what  you  would  say.  You  are  not  always 
uncivil.  I  readily  believe  it.  But,  like  too  many 
young  people,  you  think  that,  while  travelling,  you 
owe  no  man  politeness,  and  ought  neither  to  grant 
nor  receive  favors." 

"  0  !  but  after  this  lesson,  sir " 

"  You  will  act  more  like  a  sensible  man.  I  believe 
it.  But  now  I  must  confess  that  I  am  a  little  to 
blame  in  this  matter.  I  knew  you  at  the  first,  from 
Josephine's  description.  You  can,  perhaps,  imagine 
my  motive  for  persecuting  you  with  my  unwelcome 
society." 

"0,  my  dear  sir  !  "  cried  the  tortured  Albert. 

"  Ha !  ha  !  It  is  n't  a  very  bad  joke,  after  all !  " 
cried  the  old  gentleman,  his  velvet  waistcoat  undu- 
lating with  his  peculiar  happy  laugh.  "  Come,  come, 
don't  look  gloomy  now  !  I  tell  you  the  past  is  for- 
given ;  —  but,  mind,  you  must  n't  forget  it.  You 
must  learn  not  to  turn  the  cold  shoulder  to  corpu- 
lent old  gentlemen  you  meet  in  strange  places,  even 
23 


266  THE   JOURNEY   FOR   A    WIFE. 

though  always  as  disagreeable  as  the  one  you  met 
to-day.  Ha  !  ha  !  Let 's  have  a  good,  hearty  laugh 
at  the  affair,  and  say  no  more  about  it." 

In  his  gratitude  for  the  kindness  with  which  the 
old  gentleman  repaid  his  ill  treatment,  Albert  kissed 
his  hand  with  tears  glistening  in  his  eyes.  Jose- 
phine entered  presently,  followed  by  her  mother ;  — 
and,  in  half  an  hour,  Mr.  Marvin  was  showing 
Albert  about  his  farm,  and  all  were  as  happy  as  if 
no  unpleasant  occurrence  had  ever  troubled  their 
minds. 

In  a  week  Albert  returned  to  town,  a  happier, 
wiser,  better  man.  He  had  gained  the  consent  of 
Josephine's  parents  to  his  marriage  with  the  girl  of 
his  choice,  and  the  wedding-day  was  appointed.  For 
this  and  other  good  reasons,  his  heart  was  overflow- 
ing with  joy. 

In  conclusion  we  may  remark  that,  on  his  journey 
home,  Albert  attracted  general  attention,  and  won 
the  good  will  and  esteem  of  everybody,  by  the 
respect  and  civility  of  his  deportment  towards  his 
fellow-travellers. 


EDGAK  EDSON. 


IN  a  beautiful  rural  district,  in  one  of  the  New 
England  States,  Edgar  Edson  lived  alone  with  his 
mother.  His  father  died  when  he  was  sixteen ;  an 
only  sister  had  married,  and  followed  the  fortunes 
of  her  husband  in  some  wilderness  of  the  west,  and 
Edgar  and  his  surviving  parent  were  left  sole  pos- 
sessors of  the  old  homestead. 

Mrs.  Edson  and  her  son  lived  very  happily 
together ;  motherly  love  on  the  one  side,  and  filial 
affection  on  the  other,  uniting  them  more  effectually 
than  often  happens  under  similar  circumstances. 
Without  doubt,  this  happy  condition  of  things  would 
have  continued  until  Mrs.  Edson  followed  the  gen- 
erations which  have  passed  from  the  earth,  had  it 
not  been  for  the  marriage  of  Edgar. 

Living  comfortably  with  his  mother,  who  still 
enjoyed  excellent  health  and  strength,  the  young 
man  had  not  thought  of  taking  unto  himself  a  wife 


268  EDGAR   EDSON. 

as  long  as  she  was  spared  to  him,  —  until,  in  the 
course  of  human  events,  it  happened  that  his  affec- 
tions became  fixed  upon  an  orphan  vrho  resided  with 
a  relative  in  the  neighborhood. 

Edgar  desired  to  make  Althea  Baldwin  his  wife, 
without  undergoing  the  delay  and  dangers  of  years ; 
but  it  was  the  most  difficult  thing  in  the  world  for 
him  to  break  the  subject  to  his  mother.  lie  knew 
too  well  that,  much  as  she  valued  his  happiness,  it 
would  be  a  great  sacrifice  for  her  to  give  up  her 
place  as  mistress  of  the  old  homestead  to  another. 

However,  he  opened  his  heart  to  her,  and  asked 
her  consent  to  his  marriage.  It  was  a  great  trial 
for  Mrs.  Edson.  She  shed  abundance  of  tears,  and 
prayed  nightly  for  strength  and  wisdom  to  do  her 
duty.  At  length,  she  said  one  day  to  her  son, 

"  I  had  hoped  that  as  long  as  I  was  living  you 
would  never  think  of  bringing  a  young  girl  into  the 
house  to  take  my  place.  Here  your  poor  father  and 
I  labored  for  years,  —  coming  into  a  wilderness,  as 
it  were,  and  making  a  home  for  ourselves  and  chil- 
dren ;  and  I  am  so  much  attached  to  this  house, 
which  my  own  hands  have  assisted  in  building  up, 
that  I  would  not  exchange  it  for  a  palace.  And  I 
know  how  it  will  be,  if  you  marry,  Edgar  !  Your 
wife  will  claim  all  the  privileges  of  a  wife;  I  shall 
be  mistress  here  no  longer ;  but  she  will  take  tho 
ordering  of  things  upon  herself,  and  I  must  sit  by 


EDGAR   EDSOX.  ZuU 

and  look  on,  as  if  I  had  no  right  to  meddle  or  make 
with  your  household  affairs.  Yet  I  am  willing  to 
make  tho  sacrifice,  if  it  will  add  to  your  happiness. 
I  know  it  is  not  right  for  old  people  to  let  selfish- 
ness and  prejudice  stand  in  the  way  of  the  happi- 
ness of  the  young.  And  as  for  Althea,  though  I 
think  you  might  have  chosen  some  one  who  would 
have  brought  you  a  little  addition  to  our  property, 
I  have  not  a  word  to  say  against  her.  When  my 
Matilda  was  married,  I  gave  her  a  good  setting  out, 
as  you  know ;  but  it  cannot  be  expected  that  every 
man  -will  find  a  wife  with  such  good  qualities,  and 
so  comfortable  a  dower,  as  my  Matilda.  As  I  said, 
I  have  nothing  against  Althea,  who  appears  to  be  a 
pretty  good  sort  of  girl ;  so,  consider  all  things,  and 
then,  if  you  think  you  had  better  marry  her,  do  so 
as  soon  as  you  please." 

Edgar  Edson  made  some  allowance  for  his  mother's 
prudence  and  simplicity;  and  it  was  without  the 
least  inclination  to  smile  that  he  heard  her  repeat, 
twenty  times  a  day,  what  she  said  about  that 
paragon  of  daughters  —  Matilda.  He  was  sorry, 
however,  to  know  that  she  was  by  no  means  favor- 
ably impressed  with  the  idea  of  his  marrying 
Althea  ;  and,  looking  into  the  future,  he  trembled  to 
think  of  the  eternal  comparison  she  would  be  sure 
to  draw  between  her  daughter-in-law  and  her  own 
own  daughter. 

23* 


270  EDGAR   EDSON. 

But,  having  considered  everything  which  could 
be  advanced  as  an  objection  to  his  marriage,  and 
having  prepared  Althea  for  the  life  she  must  neces- 
sarily lead  as  his  wife,  he  resolved  to  achieve  the 
object  of  his  wishes. 

Althea  was  a  girl  of  considerable  spirit ;  she  pos- 
sessed an  ardent  temperament,  quick  perceptions, 
and  not  a  very  extensive  store  of  patience.  Natu- 
rally kind  and  affectionate,  however,  she  would 
undoubtedly  have  made  Edgar  abundantly  happy, 
had  it  been  her  fortune  to  live  with  him  alone.  As 
it  was,  the  honeymoon  was  scarcely  over  when  the 
smooth  waters  of  happiness  began  to  whirl  in 
troubled  eddies. 

I  believe  Mrs.  Edson  ardently  desired  to  fulfil 
the  entire  bond  of  duty  towards  her  son's  young 
wife.  She  endeavored  conscientiously  to  grant  Al- 
thea all  her  rights.  But  when  the  latter,  with  the 
native  energy  of  her  character,  assumed  the  direc- 
tion of  her  husband's  household,  and  did  so  many 
things  in  a  manner  new  and  strange  to  her  mother- 
in-law,  —  carelessly  suffering  those  matters  to  lie 
neglected  with  which  Mrs.  Edson  had  always  been 
most  particular,  and  bestowing  time  and  care  on 
affairs  of  little  moment  in  the  old  lady's  estimation, 
—  the  parent  of  the  unparalleled  Matilda  could  not 
hold  her  peace. 

Strong  in  her  prejudices,  quick  in  words,  and 


EDGAR   EDSON.  271 

lacking  moral  fortitude,  she  lost  all  her  patience 
with  "  the  girl ; "  and  often  assumed  the  right  to 
reprove  her  severely. 

Althea  could  have  borne  gentle  teaching  and 
kind  explanation  with  Christian  charity.  She  was 
ever  anxious  to  please  Mrs.  Edson,  and  would  wil- 
lingly, in  many  instances,  have  submitted,  without  a 
word,  to  her  own  more  experienced  judgment ;  but, 
when  it  came  to  reproofs  and  reproaches,  the  poor 
girl  manifested  herself  one  of  that  numerous  class 
of  women  who  possess  a  darling  "  will  of  their 
own." 

She  loved  her  husband,  however,  and,  in  order  to 
spare  his  feelings,  forebore  to  exercise  that  will  as 
she  would  otherwise  have  been  sorely  tempted  to  do. 
Only  at  intervals  it  flashed  out,  like  lightning  from 
a  dark  cloud.  However,  Edgar  was  not  altogether 
spared  the  pain  of  knowing  how  ill-adapted  were 
the  dispositions  of  Althea  and  his  mother  to  move 
together  through  life.  The  latter,  in  the  bitterness 
of  her  heart,  complained  to  him  continually,  exag- 
gerating his  wife's  faults,  and  strongly  condemning 
the  assumption  of  the  girl,  who,  she  declared, 
thought  to  set  herself  above  her,  in  her  own  house. 

"  This,  too,"  Mrs.  Edson  would  say,  "  after  I  have 
spent  a  lifetime  in  making  this  place  what  it  is ! 
Only  to  think  that  she,  coming  here  without  sc 
much  as  a  set  of  spoons,  should  presume  to  take 


272  EDGAU   EDSON. 

away  my  authority  and  rights  !  0,  if  she  had  one 
fiftieth  part  as  good  a  disposition  as  Matilda,  —  but 
it  is  no  use  to  talk !  You  think  she  is  perfection  !  " 

These  complaints  made  Edgar  very  unhappy, 
without  alienating  his  affections  from  either  Althea 
or  his  mother.  It  was  now  his  great  study  to  make 
peace  between  them  ;  and  so  judiciously  did  he  man- 
age, that  he  effectually  prevented  any  open  outbreak, 
as  long  as  he  had  daily  intercourse  with  them. 

But  a  time  came  when  Edgar  was  obliged  to 
leave  home  on  business,  and  be  absent  several  weeks. 
Bidding  an  affectionate  adieu  to  his  wife  and  mother, 
and  exhorting  each  to  exercise  charity,  patience  and 
love,  he  took  his  departure. 

Now,  no  sooner  was  he  gone,  than,  in  consequence 
of  a  slight  misunderstanding,  they  had  a  violent 
dispute,  in  which  the  mother-in-law  made  use  of 
such  terms  of  reproach  as  fired  all  Althea 's  resent- 
ment. The  latter,  with  flashing  eyes,  and  lips  com- 
pressed, suddenly  left  the  room  where  the  dispute 
occurred,  and,  reappearing  soon  after  in  her  bonnet 
and  shawl,  started  to  leave  the  house,  without  a 
word. 

A  little  frightened  by  Althea's  desperate  air, 
Mrs.  Edson  asked  where  she  was  going. 

"  I  am  going  back  to  my  old  home,"  replied  the 
indignant  woman.  "  I  have  endured  enough  of  this 
slavery  !  I  would  rather  be  a  domestic,  and  work 


EDGAR  EDSON.  273 

for  my  daily  bread  in  peace,  than  live  this  horrid  life. 
I  leave  you  to  the  free  enjoyment  of  the  'house 
your  hands  have  made,'  and  which  you  are  not  wil- 
ling I  should  enter,  except  as  an  humble  drudge,  a 
mean  and  uncomplaining  slave.  If  this  is  to  be  the 
wife  of  your  son,  I  will  go  back  to  my  old  home, 
and  spend  my  days  there,  peaceful,  if  not  happy." 

"  Althea ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Edson,  amazed  and 
confounded,  "  come  back  !  Althea " 

But  the  injured  wife  was  gone. 

Mrs.  Edson  followed  her  to  the  outer  door,  and 
called  again  in  a  loud  voice ;  but  she  did  not  so  much 
as  turn  her  head.  Following  at  a  quick  and  ner- 
vous pace  the  hill-side  road,  she  hurried  away,  and 
soon  disappeared  from  Mrs.  Edson's  sight  in  the 
valley  beyond. 

The  widow  returned  to  the  room,  and,  with  a 
troubled  brow,  sat  down,  endeavoring  to  ply  her 
knitting-needles  with  her  accustomed  swiftness. 
But  her  fingers  trembled,  her  hands  fell  upon  her 
lap,  and  she  sat  gazing  thoughtfully  at  the  floor. 

She  thought  Althea  would  certainly  come  back 
that  morning.  Towards  evening  she  began  to  grow 
anxious,  and  she  spent  the  time  in  sighing,  com- 
plaining to  herself,  and  shedding  tears.  Conscious 
of  having  done  wrong,  and  feeling  that  she  had 
vexed  Althea  beyond  endurance,  she  could  not  com« 


274  EDGAR   EDSON. 

pose  her  mind,  nor  silence  the  self-reproaches  which 
distressed  her  breast. 

How  would  her  son  greet  her  on  his  return, 
knowing  that  her  uncharitable  and  impatient  re- 
proofs had  driven  his  wife  from  his  home  ? 

Mrs.  Edson  passed  a  troubled,  sleepless  night. 
The  house  never  appeared  so  hollow  and  lonely 
before.  Fears  and  forebodings  haunted  her ;  and 
she  thought  of  her  own  Matilda,  and  remembered 
how  she  had  once  dreaded  to  think  that  she  might 
enter  the  home  of  a  mother-in-law,  —  as  Althea  had 
entered  hers.  Had  she  done  unto  Althea  as  she 
would  have  had  others  do  unto  her  own  child  ? 

Meanwhile  the  young  wife,  too  highly  incensed 
to  give  a  thought  to  the  scandal  the  step  would  inev- 
itably excite,  had  returned  to  her  old  home,  resolved 
to  remain  there  until  her  husband  should  provide 
her  another,  in  which  she  could  live  peaceably  and 
happily  with  him,  without  danger  of  reproofs  and 
insults  from  his  mother. 

Althea,  when  roused,  was  firm.  The  following 
day  found  her  cheerful,  and  strong  in  her  deter- 
mination. Nothing  could  move  her;  and  when, 
towards  noon,  she  saw  Mrs.  Edson  approach  the 
house  on  foot,  with  a  slow  and  faltering  step  along 
the  path,  her  lip  only  curled  with  scorn. 

The  widow  stood  a  moment  on  the  step,  hesitating ; 
then  with  her  thin  fingers  knocked  feebly  on  the 


EDGAR   EDSON.  275 

door.  Althea,  with  head  proudly  erect,  and  coun- 
tenance serene,  stood  before  her  mother-in-law. 

"  Althea,"  said  Mrs.  Edson,  with  tears  in  her 
eyes,  "  will  you  go  home  with  me  ?  " 

"  I  am  at  home,"  replied  the  young  wife,  coldly. 
"  I  shall  not  disturb  you  in  your  home  again  !  " 

"  My  child,"  rejoined  the  mother-in-law,  in  a 
trembling  voice,  "  I  am  sorry  I  have  offended  you, 
and  I  ask  your  forgiveness  !  You  must  go  back  ; 
for,  consider  the  scandal  which  will  gather,  to  burst 
like  a  storm  on  Edgar,  when  he  returns.  If  not 
for  my  sake  or  your  own,  for  his  sake,  come  back  !  " 

"  Mrs.  Edson,"  answered  Althea,  with  cruel  cold- 
ness, "  I  love  my  husband,  and  for  his  sake  I  have 
borne  such  injuries  as  humanity  never  suffered  with 
patience.  It  took  me  long  to  form  the  resolution  I 
did  ;  but,  now  that  it  is  formed,  it  is  unchangeable, 
—  I  shall  not  go  back  !  " 

Mrs.  Edson  had  prayed  for  humility,  charity, 
patience.  Patient,  charitable,  humble,  she  had 
gone  to  beg  her  own  daughter-in-law  to  forgive  her. 
But  could  she  —  should  she  suffer  such  pride  to 
triumph  over  her,  —  such  presumption  to  trample 
her  in  the  dust  ?  Ought  the  mother-in-law  of  fifty 
to  cringe  and  shrink  at  the  feet  of  the  giddy  girl  of 
twenty  ? 

She  threw  off  her  mantle  of  humility,  charity 
and  patience,  and,  with  the  sharp,  wordy  sword  of 


276  EDGAR   EDSON. 

indignation,  attacked  Althea's  pride.  The  latter 
laughed,  and,  reentering  the  house,  left  the  widow 
standing  alone  on  the  threshold. 

Mrs.  Edson  stood  a  moment,  speechless  with 
anger  and  amazement,  following  Althea  with  her 
burning  eye  ;  then,  gathering  her  shawl  closely  about 
her,  as  if  it  had  been  some  strength-giving  resolu- 
tion, she  turned  away,  and,  at  a  different  pace  from 
the  slow  and  feeble  step  with  which  she  had  ap- 
proached the  house,  returned  to  her  own  desolate 
home. 

With  the  exception  of  Samuel  Masters,  a  youth 
in  Edgar's  employ,  she  was  now  quite  alone ;  and  it 
was  only  in  the  evening  and  at  his  meals  that  she 
had  his  society.  Young  and  ignorant  as  he  was, 
however,  the  widow  made  him  her  companion,  and 
endeavored  to  beguile  her  loneliness  and  wretched- 
ness by  drawing  him  into  conversation.  But  Sam- 
uel would  drop  asleep  in  his  chair,  and  Mrs.  Edson 
would  be  left  alone  with  her  own  thoughts,  which 
were  like  haunting  spirits  of  evil. 

Two  weeks  passed.  Althea  was  still  firm  in  her 
resolution,  and  her  mother-in-law  was  very  anxiously 
awaiting  her  son's  return.  Edgar  had  been  heard 
from  but  once ;  he  wrote  the  morning  he  embarked 
on  board  the  sloop  Dolphin,  at  Charleston,  on  his 
way  home  ;  and  he  was  now  daily  expected. 

Such  was  the  condition  of  affairs  when,  one  beau- 


EDGAR   EDSOX.  277 

tiful  afternoon,  as  the  widow  was  plucking  some 
weeds  from  the  borders  of  the  door-yard  path,  she 
heard  the  gate  open,  and,  looking  up,  saw,  with  a 
strange  mingling  of  joyful  surprise  and  foreboding 
of  ill,  Althea  approach  the  house. 

She  had  despaired  of  seeing  her  daughter-in-law 
again  until  Edgar's  return ;  and,  so  great  was  her 
confusion  at  the  sudden  apparition,  that  she  scarcely 
knew  whether  to  turn  her  back  upon  her,  or  wel- 
come her  with  open  arms.  Althea  left  her  no  time 
for  reflection.  With  a  frantic  gesture,  she  thrust 
a  newspaper  into  the  widow's  hand,  exclaiming, 
hoarsely, 

"  Bead  that,  —  and  tell  me  if  I  am  in  my  right 
senses ! " 

Mrs.  Edson  started  with  alarm.  She  gazed  ear- 
nestly at  Althea,  who  was  deadly  pale  ;  then  eagerly 
read  the  paragraph  at  which  the  young  wife's  trem- 
bling finger  pointed. 

The  widow  swooned,  and  fell  upon  the  path. 

"  It  is  too  true  !  —  too  true  !  "  shrieked  Althea, 
clasping  her  hands  upon  her  brow.  "  0,  Edgar  ! 
my  Edgar  !  dead  !  dead  !  " 

The  paragraph  was  a  brief  notice  of  the  loss  of 
the  sloop  Dolphin,  and  the  lives  of  three  passengers. 
The  names  of  the  unfortunates  were  given.  The 
first  was  that  of  EDGAR  EDSON  ! 

Althea  lifted  her  mother-in-law  in  her  arms,  and, 
24 


278  EDGAR   EDSON. 

as  the  latter  began  to  recover  from  her  swoon,  wept 
upon  her  bosom.  It  was  no  time  then  for  resent- 
ment or  pride ;  but  the  tears  that  welled  up  from 
their  crushed  and  broken  hearts  were  mingled  in 
sympathy. 

It  is  meet  that  we  should  draw  a  yeil  over  the 
scene  of  grief  and  lamentation  which  ensued.  In 
all  the  years  through  which  that  house  had  stood,  it 
had  not  been  visited  by  such  wild  and  uncontrollable 
despair.  The  sounds  of  woe  brought  neighbors  to 
the  cottage,  who  vainly  endeavored  to  administer 
consolation  and  hope  to  the  afflicted  women.  It  was 
impossible  to  say  which  of  the  two  suffered  the 
keenest  anguish. 

The  whole  neighborhood  was  thrown  into  conster- 
nation by  the  intelligence  of  Edgar's  death.  The 
cottage  was  thronged  by  the  old  and  young  of  both 
sexes,  —  the  friends  of  the  widow,  the  mates  of  her 
son,  the  companions  of  Althea,  —  all  who  sympa- 
thized with  their  distress.  Everybody  seemed  anx- 
ious to  comfort  and  assist ;  but  what  comfort, 
what  assistance,  could  be  given  ?  Only  one  person 
conceived  of  the  true  method  of  soothing  the 
wounded  hearts  of  Althea  and  her  mother.  This 
was  the  thoughtful  and  benevolent  Deacon  Sumpter. 
Volunteering  to  set  out  at  once  for  the  scene  of  the 
disaster,  to  bring,  if  possible,  the  body  of  Edgar  to  his 


EDGAR   EDSON.  279 

native  village,  he  took  leave  of  the  mourners,  and 
departed  on  his  mission  the  same  night. 

Three  days  have  passed.  It  is  evening,  and  Mrs. 
Edson  and  Althea  are  alone  in  the  lonely  cottage. 
Friends,  who  have  been  with  them  all  the  long,  long 
day,  have  just  gone  to  their  homes,  under  the  escort 
of  the  faithful  and  simple  Samuel. 

It  is  a  chilly  night,  and  the  sorrowing  women  have 
built  a  fire  of  fagots  on  the  hearth.  The  candle, 
burning  low,  has  fallen  in  its  socket,  and  expired. 
Only  the  flames  of  the  blazing  twigs  and  sticks  light 
up  the  room,  as  they  dance  in  the  wide  chimney, 
and  throw  spectral  shadows  all  along  the  walls. 

The  cricket  comes  forth  from  his  hermit-cell,  and 
startles  silence  with  his  shrill,  sharp  chirp.  There 
is  something  ineffably  dreary  and  desolate  to  the 
sorrow-stricken  heart  in  that  mournful  insect's  song. 
It  makes  the  two  widows  shudder,  —  the  elder  and 
the  younger,  —  and  clasp  tighter  the  hand  each 
holds  in  hers. 

The  first  paroxysm  of  grief  had  passed.  Sad 
resignation  and  deep-settled  sorrow  had  taken  the 
place  of  the  agony  which  seeks  relief  in  lamenta- 
tions. 

Althea  and  her  mother-in-law  had  conversed 
calmly  about  their  sorrow.  The  past,  too,  had  been 
reviewed ;  and,  when  their  hearts  were  softened  by 
the  sympathy  of  sadness,  they  tasted  the  heavenly 


280  EDGAR   EDSON. 

sweets  of  mutual  forgiveness  and  perfect  reconcilia- 
tion. 

"  Henceforth,"  said  the  elder  of  the  two  niourn 
ers,  as  she  pressed  her  companion's  hand,  "  hence 
forth,  my  child,  my  home  is  your  home,  —  what  I 
have  is  yours.  I  only  ask  you  to  love  me,  and  over- 
look my  faults.  Live  with  me,  and  I  will  endeavor 
to  atone  for  the  past  by  perfect  submission  to  your 
wishes." 

"  Mother,  do  not  talk  so  !  "  murmured  Althea. 
"  It  is  for  me  to  atone  for  my  faults  by  humility. 
Shall  I  —  so  much  younger  than  you  —  shall  I, 
with  my  immature  judgment  and  ungoverned  ca- 
prices, attempt  to  set  up  my  wishes  before  yours  ? 
0,  mother !  let  us  live  without  selfishness,  without 
strife  and  discord,  —  let  us  live  in  peace,  and  may 
the  memory  of  him  bind  our  hearts  together  !  " 

"  Amen  !  "  breathed  the  widow,  raising  her  eyes, 
dim  with  unshed  tears,  towards  heaven.  "  Amen  !  " 

At  that  moment  the  door  was  burst  open,  and 
the  lad  Samuel  rushed  to  the  hearth.  The  mourn- 
ers, alarmed  by  his  abrupt  and  excited  manner, 
started  from  their  seats,  and  gazed  upon  his  face. 
The  blaze  of  the  fagots  revealed  it  pale  as  ashes. 
He  trembled  from  head  to  foot. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Samuel  ? "  asked  the  old 
lady. 


EDGAR   EDSON.  281 

With  a  countenance  full  of  horror,  the  lad  pointed 
towards  the  door,  which  he  had  left  open. 

Althea  closed  it. 

"  Speak  ! "  said  her  mother,  clasping  Samuel's 
arm.  "  What  is  the  matter  ? " 

"  His  ghost !  "  gasped  Samuel,  shuddering. 

Althea  'smiled  sadly.  Since  the  news  of  Ed- 
gar's death  had  arrived,  Samuel,  who  possessed  an 
excitable  imagination,  had  been  haunted  by  vague 
terrors,  insomuch  that  he  had  been  confessedly 
afraid  to  be  alone  in  the  dark.  On  this  occasion, 
Althea  charged  his  fears  upon  his  excited  fancy,  and 
would  not  have  questioned  him ;  but  Mrs.  Edson 
pursued  her  inquisition. 

"  What  do  you  mean   by  his  ghost,  —  whose 


"  His  —  Mr.  Edgar's,  —  I  saw  it  —  by  the  grave- 
yard ! " 

At  that  moment  the  gate  was  heard  to  open  and 
close,  and  the  superstitious  lad  moved  into  a  corner, 
pale,  and  trembling  with  fear. 

"  There  it  comes  !  "  he  muttered.  "  It  followed 
me,  —  I  knew  it  would  come  here  !  " 

"  Hush,  simpleton ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Edson. 
"  Ghosts  go  through  gates  without  noise,  —  if  ghosts 
there  be.  Go  and  open  the  door." 

"I  —  I  would  n't  for  a  kingdom  !  "  said  the  lad. 
24* 


282  EDGAR   EDSON. 

"  I  know  it 's  him.  I  saw  him  with  the  moon- 
light in  his  face, —  there !  there  !  " 

The  door  opened.  A  pale  figure  glided  into  the 
room.  The  flame  of  the  candle,  which  Althea  had 
just  lighted  from  a  blazing  fagot,  fell  upon  the  face 
of  the  visitor.  Those  white  features  were  not  to  be 
mistaken.  Althea  let  fall  the  candle,  and  sprang 
forward.  She  was  clasped  in  her  husband's  arms ; 
she  fainted  on  her  husband's  breast ! 

"  My  son  !  Edgar  !  my  living  son  !  "  the  widow 
cried  aloud,  clasping  his  neck  in  the  frenzy  of  sud- 
den joy. 

Half  in  fear,  half  in  wonder,  Samuel  started 
from  his  corner,  and  stared  at  the  marvellous  scene, 
until,  his  weak  comprehension  receiving  the  vivid 
truth,  he  shook  off  his  terror,  and  shouted,  at  the  top 
of  his  voice, 

"  He  's  come  home  alive  !  Mr.  Edgar  Edson,  that 
was  drowned-ed,  has  come  home  alive  !  " 

Almost  as  much  I  shrink  from  attempting  to 
delineate  vast  joy  as  from  the  description  of  over- 
whelming grief.  But  what  need  is  there  of  por- 
traying the  all-powerful  and  pervading  happiness, 
the  bursting  flood  of  sunshine,  which  filled  the  souls 
of  Althea  and  her  mother  ? 

As  soon  as  they  were  calm  enough  to  hear  him, 
Edgar  told  his  story,  of  which  we  only  require  to 
know  that,  being  picked  up  from  a  spar,  to  which 


EDGAR   EDSON.  283 

he  had  lashed  himself,  after  the  wreck  of  the  Dol- 
phin, he  had  been  taken  care  of  by  a  kind  captain 
and  crew  of  a  merchant  ship,  and  carried  to  New 
York.  Thence,  although  enfeebled  by  the  suffer- 
ings he  had  undergone,  he  had  proceeded  at  once  to 
greet  his  wife  and  mother,  whom  he  hoped  to  see 
before  they  heard  of  his  disaster. 

It  was  months  before  Edgar  Edson  learned  the 
particulars  of  the  misunderstanding  which  had 
divided  Althea  and  her  mother-in-law  during  his 
absence ;  and  when  he  heard  the  truth,  it  afforded 
him  little  uneasiness,  in  presence  of  the  peace  and 
love  and  harmony  which  now  prevailed,  unsullied 
and  undisturbed,  under  the  sheltering  wings  of  the 
guardian  angels  of  his  home. 


MRS.   JASLITT'S  SPANIEL. 


MRS.  JASLITT'S  spaniel  was  sick.  The  darling  dog 
was  stricken  with  some  frightful  malady.  Mrs.  Jas- 
litt  thought  the  lovely  creature  was  going  to  die. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  it  ?  "  she  cried,  in  a 
tone  of  anguish,  to  Mr.  Jaslitt.  "  It  won't  eat  any- 
thing. I  offer  it  the  nicest  cream  toast,  and  it  will 
not  taste  it.  It  refuses  pound-cake.  I  bought  a  bit 
of  venison  yesterday  expressly  for  it,  and  had  it 
carefully  broiled.  Yes,  Mr.  Jaslitt,  I  broiled  it 
with  my  own  hands.  But  the  poor  thing  only  smelt 
of  it,  and  turned  away  his  head." 

Mrs.  Jaslitt  used  her  perfumed  handkerchief. 
After  wiping  her  eyes  with  it,  she  wiped  the  dog's, 
as  he  lay  upon  the  sofa  by  her  side. 

"  He  will  grow  lean  if  he  cannot  eat,"  she  mur- 
mured, smoothing  the  animal's  plump,  shaggy  skin. 
"He  will  starve,  Mr.  Jaslitt.  What  a  horrid 
thought ! " 


MRS.  JASLITT'S  SPANIEL  285 

"  Have  the  doctor  to  him,"  cried  Jaslitt,  gruffly, 
over  his  newspaper. 

"Have  the  doctor?"  repeated  his  lady,  in  a 
mournful  tone,  and  with  tears  in  her  large  blue 
eyes.  "  0,  Mr.  Jaslitt !  do  you  think  I  would 
neglect  to  do  so,  when  my  pet "  —  dropping  a  teai 
on  the  tip  of  Angelo's  nose  —  "  was  dying  ?  I 
called  Dr.  Slique  three  days  ago.  But  he  could  n't 
do  anything.  To  be  sure,  he  was  for  giving  a  dose 
of  calomel ;  but  I  could  n't  bear  the  thought  of 
that.  0  dear !  if  the  poor  thing  should  be  sal- 
ivated ! " 

"  Dreadful !  "  growled  Jaslitt,  rustling  the  news- 
paper. "Did  the  doctor  give  no  sort  of  advice?" 

"  Yes.  He  charged  me,  as  I  value  Angelo's  life, 
to  keep  him  in  doors,  and  take  care  that  he  does  not 
get  cold.  An  influenza  would  prove  fatal.  I  don't 
know  but  he  has  it  now,  —  ah,  poor  thing  !  " 

Mrs.  Jaslitt  saw  the  glistening  tear  she  had  let 
fall  on  Angelo's  nose.  She  did  not  know  it  was  a 
tear.  It  might  be  a  symptom  of  the  influenza.  She 
wiped  it  away  very  tenderly  with  her  dainty  hand- 
kerchief, and  went  on : 

"  Last  night  I  soaked  his  feet.  The  doctor  said 
it  would  do  no  harm,  at  any  rate.  The  water  was 
blood  warm  ;  and  I  applied  hot  flannels  afterwards. 
But  I  believe  he  is  worse  than  ever  this  morning. 


286  MRS.  JASLITT'S  SPANIEL. 

All  he  has  eaten  since  yesterday  was  a  fresh  egg, 
beat  up  in  milk,  with  sugar  and  butter." 

"  I  '11  tell  ye  what !  "  suddenly  exclaimed  Jaslitt, 
"  I  've  an  idea." 

"  0  !  "  articulated  his  lady,  clasping  her  hands, 
11  if  you  love  me,  Jaslitt,  save,  0,  save  my  dog  !  " 

"  I  will.  I  know  a  man  that  can  cure  him. 
Wonder  I  did  n't  think  of  the  colonel  before.  He 
is  worth  fifty  Dr.  Sliques,  when  we  come  to  diseases 
of  animals." 

The  colonel  was  a  famous  veterinarian.  At  the 
mention  of  his  name,  Mrs.  Jaslitt's  bosom  thrilled 
with  hope.  She  gave  her  husband  no  peace  until  he 
had  sent  for  him  to  come  and  look  at  Angelo. 

The  colonel  arrived,  —  a  shrewd,  dashing,  jolly 
fellow,  with  a  sense  of  the  ludicrous.  He  enjoyed 
the  lady's  distress  exceedingly ;  but  promised  to  cure 
her  darling.  She  thanked  him  with  an  excess  of 
gratitude. 

"  Send  him  out  to  my  place  to-morrow,  and  come 
for  him  in  a  week,"  said  he  to  Jaslitt. 

"  Money  is  no  object,"  replied  Jaslitt.  "  Cure 
him,  if  he  can  be  cured,  whatever  the  expense 
may  be." 

"  Leave  him  to  me,"  said  the  colonel. 

The  next  day  Mrs.  Jaslitt  took  affectionate  leave 
of  her  darling,  and  abandoned  him  with  many  tears, 
and  some  forebodings,  to  the  hands  of  the  coachman. 


MRS.  JASLITT'S  SPANIEL.  287 

On  the  arrival  of  Angelo,  the  colonel  attached  a 
strong  cord  to  his  collar,  and,  shouldering  a  crow- 
bar, led  him  to  a  bleak  and  unsheltered  spot  in  the 
fields. 

There  he  drove  the  iron  bar  into  the  ground,  fast- 
ened the  dog  to  it,  pulled  his  ears,  gave  him  a  kick, 
and  left  him. 

Five  days  later,  Jaslitt  himself  came  for  the  dog. 

"  I*could  n't  wait  a  full  week,"  said  he ;  "  Mrs. 
Jaslitt  gave  me  no  peace." 

"  Well,"  replied  the  colonel,  "  I  think  Angelo  is 
about  well.  Let 's  go  look  at  him.  I  have  tied 
him  in  the  field  where  he  can  get  a  little  fresh  air 
this  morning." 

They  found  Angelo  fastened  to  the  crowbar,  ex- 
actly as  the  colonel  had  left  him,  five  days  before, 
except  that  he  had  wound  himself  up,  by  walking 
innumerable  times  around  the  bar. 

"  Confound  him !  he  looks  a  hundred  per  cent, 
better,"  cried  Jaslitt.  "His  eye  is  bright  again. 
He  is  lively,  too.  He  looks  as  though  he  would  eat." 

"  Eat  ?  Try  him  !  "  laughed  the  colonel.  "  But 
be  careful  and  not  give  him  rich  food.  Tempt  him 
with  a  cold  potato,  or  a  crust  of  bread." 

Jaslitt  took  Angelo  home,  having  paid  the  colonel 
twenty  dollars  for  keeping  him  tied  five  days  to  a 
crowbar,  without  eating. 

Mrs.  Jaslitt  danced,  laughed  and  wept,  for  joy. 


288  MRS.  JASLITT'S  SPANIEL. 

The  lovely  creature  —  although  looking  very  lank 
—  was  so  much  better  !  It  seemed  as  though  they 
could  not  give  him  beef-steak  enough  to  gratify  his 
enormous  appetite.  In  short,  Angelo  was  himself 
again,  and  Mrs.  Jaslitt's  agony  was  over. 

The  colonel's  fame  went  abroad,  and,  to  this  day, 
he  has  plenty  of  sick  dogs  to  cure  of  dyspepsy,  at 
twenty  dollars  a  head.  His  manner  of  treatment 
remains  a  mystery. 

In  conclusion,  we  would  suggest  that,  as  so  many 
of  our  friends,  puppies  and  others,  are  troubled  with 
a  similar  complaint  to  poor  Angelo's,  they  should 
apply  to  the  colonel  for  his  remedy,  instead  of 
patronizing  Dr.  Sliques,  and  forcing  their  cloyed 
appetites  with  dainties. 


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